


we are the fire (see how they run)

by littlelamplight



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Anya Lives, F/F, F/M, FIx It, Lexa Lives, Post 2x04, god I can't believe I have to add that tag, obviously, they both deserved BETTER
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-04-11 02:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 69,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4418030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelamplight/pseuds/littlelamplight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke will remember little of that night. She’ll remember Anya reaching forward to grasp her hand, a sliver of hope as blinding as the sun. She’ll remember dirt and blood and Anya dropping like a stone. </p><p>She’ll remember screaming. </p><p> </p><p>In which Anya lives, and it changes everything. </p><p>Almost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Clarke remembers things in flashes, broken images skittering behind her eyelids, snatches of truth stained red and black and white, blood and dirt and crisp, white bandages. 

 

She remembers horror and despair and grief, crashing over her in waves as she lies there, aware now, that she’s lying on her back, something soft and heavy covering her, tickling her chin. She’s warm, but she feels cold, the chill of tunnels running under a prison disguised as a haven, as safety, the chill of bodies pilled onto her, the icy shock of the water as she fell, jumping after a woman she’d thought left her to die. 

 

_Anya._

 

She remembers, as she becomes aware of the muffled sounds around her, gentle and unthreatening, walking through rows and rows of desperate, subdued Grounders, of bending down in front of one, drawn by something that even now she cannot explain, to find her, the woman who’d been on another side of a war that Clarke had come to realise she didn’t understand. She remembers Anya’s expression, dazed and beaten, tinged with despair, her once sharp eyes dull and glazed, weak in a way Clarke had never expected to see. She remembers the way the woman’s fingers curled around the bars of her cage, as if she’d wanted to reach for her, her expression becoming one of confusion, of disbelief, and Clarke remembers the rage that exploded through her, rage at what the Mountain Men had done, the way fear had crept up on her at the thought of what they might do. 

 

_I’m going to get you out of here._

 

And Anya had looked at her like she wasn’t really there. She remembers scrambling into the cage, pushing back against the grating as the doctor approached, and then, there, she’d felt Anya come alive, her eyes bright in the dark, she remembers the woman’s hand on her arm, nails digging into her skin, a sharp reminder that she was alive. She remembers the chill to the woman’s bare skin, remembers how frail she’d seemed, her fingers bony, the curve of her spine sharp, her ribs protruding when Clarke helped her from the cage, slinging her arm around her shoulders. She remembers how Anya stumbled, her weight heavy, her head bowed and her hair swinging down to frame her face, as if she couldn’t hold it up, she remembers, vividly, more than anything, the smell that had clung to her, the stench of fear and sweat and despair and death. 

 

Clarke’s fingers twitch beneath the blankets as she fights to keep her breathing slow and deep, to pretend that she is still asleep. She doesn’t know where she is, doesn’t recognise the smells or the sounds, and she’s afraid that she’ll open her eyes to danger and death, and she’s still not entirely sure how she got here. 

 

The last thing she remembers is - 

 

Anya, exploding out of the darkness, returning for her, ripping the masks from the Mountain Men, her eyes wild and full of fire. 

 

Anya, a hand resting on the rough wall, staring over the abyss, her voice low and urgent, _jump,_ she remembers screaming when the women did just that, remembers screaming when she followed, remembers the water dragging her under and tossing her against the river bed, drowning, drowning, a hand on her jacket, pulling her up, pulling her out. 

 

Anya, slapping mud on her face, the corners of her dark eyes crinkling in what might have been amusement, or exasperation. 

 

Anya, teeth stained with her own blood, unflinching and strong, _I will not go back there_ , and an unidentifiable emotion stirring in her heart, pity and understanding and she got it, like a flash of light in a dark tunnel, a glimpse of what it meant to be a Grounder, because she’d realised then that these people have been living under the shadow of the mountain for years upon years, and they might have seemed harsh, like savages, but she stood there and stared at the older woman, her hands still bound, watching the blood drip from her arm, and she’d _understood_. 

 

Clarke swallows, flipping her hand over to feel the material of the blanket against her palm. It is not made of fur, or the luxurious material of Mount Weather. It feels rough and scratchy, something soft that has become old and worn, and she almost frowns. She’s not with the Grounders, and she’s not at Mount Weather. She searches her memory, searching for the truth that eludes her, slipping through her fingers like smoke, because she knows, she _knows_ what has happened, and yet she doesn’t.

 

She remembers - 

 

Anya, covered in mud, her eyes slits, blood staining her face, breathing harshly as Clarke sits atop her hips, knife held tightly in her hand, and then the woman’s expression cracks open and she _smiles_ , and makes a sound that Clarke realises a split second later is laughter, frail and breathy, and underneath the mud and blood Clarke catches sight of something else, another truth about the Grounders that she doesn’t understand, but wants to, needs to. _You fought well_. And she feels something like shame prickle at her, because while Anya might have tried to kill her, _again_ , the woman has spent days locked in a cage, starved, hung upside down while the blood drained from her, and the anger that burns through her blood has nothing to do with the woman below her. 

 

Clarke can feel her heart beating rapidly against her ribs, her hand clutches at the blanket, her breathing coming harshly now, images flickering rapidly behind her eyelids and - 

 

Anya, her shoulders slumped in exhaustion, her eyes heavy lidded, staring at her in the darkness, reaching forward to grasp her extended hand, finally, finally, a sliver of hope as bright as the slight tilt of the woman’s lips, they’ll get their people out, they’ll make the Mountain Men pay, they’ll have peace, maybe, maybe _things will be okay_. 

 

And then Anya drops like a stone, and the shot echoes through the night, ringing in Clarke’s ears and burrowing into her skull and there is blood everywhere, staining Anya’s skin, staining her hands, and the woman’s eyes are dim and dull, and the smile that wraps around the foreign words, the words that she’s heard again and again and again, is bright and blinding. 

 

She _remembers._

 

'Anya!'

 

She jerks up right with the woman’s name on her lips, frantic and unseeing, she’s seeing blood, Anya’s eyes as the life slips from her, _no no no no_ , and there are hands on her, gripping her shoulders, but she can’t see anything, her mind a fog of panic and fear, and - 

 

‘Clarke! Clarke, calm down, you’re safe, its okay, _its okay_ ’. 

 

Clarke blinks, and the fog clears, and she’s staring into warm, desperately familiar eyes. ‘ _Mom?’_

 

Abby exhales sharply, and it sounds suspiciously like a sob, her smile is wide and her eyes are bright, ‘yes honey, its me’, her voice breaks, and Clarke remembers listening to her mother’s voice over the radio, the way she’d said her name, _Clarke?,_ and feels something twist inside her. 

 

‘I thought…’ _I thought you were dead._ The image before her eyes flickers, and she sees a woman covered in dirt and blood, sees it staining her teeth, her pulse fluttering and weak as Clarke presses her hands to the exit wound, and she exhales sharply, ‘ _Anya_ ’.

 

Something shifts in Abby’s eyes, and Clarke’s not exactly sure what it is, but she can imagine. Abby knows that there was no one by that name among the hundred. ‘Mom? Where’s Anya?’

 

Abby sighs heavily, and Clarke _knows_ that look. It’s the look her mother gets whenever she’s performed a particularly difficult surgery, when its been touch and go, when its _bad_. 

 

‘Mom?’

 

Abby lets go and steps to the side, and Clarke rushes to stand, ignoring her mother’s attempt to hold her back, and stumbles towards the woman lying unmoving on the other cot. She practically collapses against the side, legs giving out, and she feels Abby’s hands on her shoulders, holding her up. 

 

Anya looks, in short, like death. Without the dirt and blood covering her face, her skin is pale, her cheeks hollow, and she looks fevered, eyes moving rapidly beneath their lids. Her breathing is shallow, and Clarke watches the woman breathe for a moment. Her lips are parted slightly, head tilted to the side, and her hair flutters with each breath she takes. Her chest rises and falls slowly, and Clarke registers that she’s been stripped down to the gauze from Mount Weather, and she feels something like nausea curl in her stomach at the sight. 

 

She’s alive. 

 

She watches her breathe, silently, her mother’s hands on her shoulders, until the tightness in her chest eases. 

 

‘Will she live?’

 

Abby’s hands tighten on her shoulders slightly, sliding down her arms to take her hands. Clarke turns to look at her. Abby looks exhausted, she realises, her eyes red rimmed, a permanent crease between her brows. She looks older than Clarke remembers. 

 

‘She’d lost a lot of blood, Clarke, by the time Burns let me look at her’, Abby scowls, a hand trailing up to hover over Clarke’s shoulder, and Clarke remembers, detachedly, that she was also shot. She can feel it now, a slight burn that pulses in time to her heartbeat. ‘I’ve done my best, Clarke. It’s up to her now’. 

 

Her mother pauses, searching her face. Then she says, ‘who is this woman, Clarke?’ When Clarke says nothing, Abby sighs. ‘I know she’s a Grounder’. Clarke tenses. She knows that Abby won’t hurt Anya, but that doesn’t meant that others won’t. She has an image of Anya locked up again, any trust that had formed between them broken, and shivers. Abby squeezes her hands. 'But I also know she must mean something to you, considering how you fought for her’.

 

Clarke frowns. ‘Fought for her?’ 

 

Abby mirrors her expression. ‘You don’t remember?’ She sighs. She’s not exactly surprised, considering how Clarke was brought in, exhausted and dirty and bleeding. She doesn’t know what has happened to her daughter, but she knows, from the haunted look in Clarke’s eyes, that it is not a story that will be easy to tell. ‘They brought you in the gate screaming incoherently. Most people thought you were a Grounder because they couldn’t understand what you were saying. Once we realised — once I realised who you were, I thought that maybe they’d accidentally shot another one of you kids. They brought her back here, and when they realised she was a Grounder, they wanted to let her die’. Something like pride sparks in Abby’s eyes. ‘You kept screaming that we had to save her’. Her expression becomes troubled. ‘You refused to let me look at you until I saved her’. 

 

Clarke hears the pain in Abby’s voice, and understands how hard it was for her, ignoring the fact that her daughter was injured so that she could fight against all odds to save a complete stranger. She reaches up and grips her mother’s shoulder, longing to lean forward and just let her mother hold her, but she doesn’t. Not yet. Its too much, everything thats happened, and she feels like she’s a dam about to burst its banks, feels like everything is going to come crashing down on her all at once, and she can’t let that happen. Not yet. ‘Thank you’, she says, and she means it. 

 

Her mother’s smile is small, and yet hopeful, and Clarke remembers the way things were left between them. She swallows, and tries to focus on something else, just for a moment. ‘I don’t remember any of that’. 

 

Abby watches her daughter stare down at Anya, and bites her lip. She doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t want to push her, but she needs to tell the Council something, and the longer they wait, the more agitated people are becoming ‘Clarke, who is this woman?’

 

Clarke is silent for a moment. Anya is many things. She’s the person whose tried to kill Clarke pretty much every time she turns her back. But she’s also the woman who came back for her in the tunnels when she could’ve run, the woman who stood there in the dark and clasped her hand, and got shot for it. 

 

She takes a deep breath. ‘She’s our only hope for peace with the Grounders’. Her voice hardens. ‘And we shot her’. 

 

Abby guides her back to her own cot, and Clarke lets her. Her legs are shaking, and she’s beginning to realise just how tired she is, how much her body aches. She knows how terrible she must look to her mother, she knows that by now, the signs of her fight with Anya at the dropship must be showing. 

 

She is grateful though, that someone cleaned her face. She can still feel the dirt and blood coating her skin, her hair sticking to the back of her neck, she knows that she’s covered it, but at least her face doesn’t feel stretched and taunt every time she speaks now. 

 

She glances at her mother. Abby sits beside her, close enough to touch, and yet her hand rests atop the blankets beside her, her eyes fixed on Anya, as if she’s determinedly not looking at her. Clarke wonders what her mother is thinking. There is a muscle jumping in her jaw, as if she’s desperately trying to refrain from speaking, from asking her more questions, and Clarke feels a spark of gratitude and affection and love, and god, she thought that her mother was dead, and that the last words between them had been ones of spite, and that she’d died thinking that her daughter hated her. 

 

Clarke reaches out and clasps her mother’s hand. Abby instantly flips her hand over, intertwining their fingers tightly. It is grounding, somehow, an anchor against the tide of emotions threatening to drown her. Abby’s eyes are wide and hopeful when she turns to look at her, and Clarke can feel that dam breaking.

 

‘I thought you were…’ her voice breaks, her eyes burning, and she takes a shuddering breath and swallows tightly. She knows that things are very far from resolved, with her mother, with Anya, with the Mountain Men, she feels like this might be the calm before the storm, because war is on the horizon and there are going to be casualties and maybe she can allow everything that has happened to catch up with her, here, now, with the woman she believed died thinking she hated her. ‘I thought you were dead, Mom’. And her voice breaks, and her vision blurs and her tears spill over to track down her cheeks. 

 

Abby stands and steps close to her and wraps her arms around her and Clarke is enveloped in warmth and her mother’s familiar smell, and she buries her face against Abby’s neck and breaths her in and allows herself to believe, just for a moment, that she’s safe. She fights to hold back her tears, to swallow them down, to fight a weakness she hasn’t been able to indulge in. 

 

She almost wishes that she could forgive her mother for what she did to her father, but she knows that if she said it, it would be a lie. Maybe one day, the words will come, and they’ll feel real. But there have been enough lies between them, so she doesn’t say it, and maybe that is why Abby doesn’t say the words Clarke wishes she could hear, and yet knows would be a lie, _it’s going to be okay,_ because she doesn’t feel like it will be, not yet, not for a long time, and right now, it would be too much. 

 

‘I wasn’t on the ship, sweetheart. I’m right here’. Clarke closes her eyes and breathes slowly, her fingers grasping at Abby’s jacket, listening to the woman’s heart beat, steady and strong. 

 

‘Did anyone else make it?’ she mumbles against Abby’s skin, wondering when she let herself be like this, anything less than strong, because she needed to be. 

 

‘Yes, six of you did’. 

 

Clarke feels her heart slam against her ribs and gasps, throat tight. ‘Bellamy? Finn?’ she swallows, daring to hope, ‘Raven?’

 

She _feels_ her mother hesitate, and pulls back, searching Abby’s face for the reason. Her mother’s smile is tight and tired. ‘Bellamy and Finn are fine. I sent them out after you’. Her expression becomes pained. ‘Raven too, but she was badly injured when we found her. She’s going to have some permanent damage. It’ll change her life’. 

 

Clarke lets out a strangled sound, and it was meant to be a laugh, one of relief, but it sounds more like a sob. ‘Raven won’t let that stop her’. 

 

And then everything breaks apart and she’s sobbing, heaving, ugly sobs against her mother’s shoulder, because its all _too much_ , believing Abby was dead, shutting the door on Finn and Bellamy, thinking they were dead, that she’d killed them, believing Raven was dead, finding Anya curled up in that cage, watching her drop like a stone, and now they’re here, and they’re all alive, and its too much. 

 

Her mother holds her tightly, and murmurs nonsense into her hair, and Clarke lets herself cry. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so this will pretty much be spanning up until the final.
> 
> In the future, it will be Clexa, at least, thats the plan. I'm not sure exactly where Anya's relationship with Clarke is heading at this point, so I'm open to suggestions.
> 
> It'll mainly feature Clarke and Anya's perspectives, and probably Lexa, a little later.


	2. Chapter 2

Anya’s fever rages through the hours, and Clarke doesn’t leave her side. She presses a damp cloth to the woman’s forehead, watching as her mother unwraps her bandages, to inspect for infection or festering, her hands itching to do something. 

 

After a moment, she pulls the woman’s hair away from her neck, pulling sweaty strands from her skin, and parts her hair into three sections, and braids it quickly, ignoring the way her mother stares at her. 

 

She knows that Anya’s chances are slim, with all the blood she’s lost, and she knows that if the woman’s fever doesn’t break, those chances are even slimmer. 

 

Anya is murmuring in her own language, the words stumbling against the groans that hiss between her teeth as Abby’s fingers skim across her skin, checking the stitches, checking for warning signs. Clarke doesn’t understand a word of what she’s saying, not until her neck strains to the side and she says, ‘Tris _’_ , a whimper that Clarke thinks she’s imagined, until the name tears from her throat again, a raw sound that sounds like a wounded animal in pain, ‘ _Tris_ ’.

 

Clarke feels her stomach churn, her heart aches, and Abby looks up from where she’s finishing tying off a fresh bandage. ‘Who is Tris?’ she asks, and Clarke wonders if she can see the guilt rising like bile on her tongue. 

 

‘She was a… their warriors take on apprentices to train. Its how they learn. Tris was hers’. She swallows tightly. ‘She was just a girl’.

 

Abby frowns. ‘Was?’

 

‘We put  a bomb on a bridge to hold them off. Tris got caught in the blast. She had internal bleeding. I couldn’t save her’.

 

She smooths the damp cloth across Anya’s forehead, and over her cheekbones, washing away the telltale signs of tears leaking from her eyes. She wishes that her mother wasn’t seeing this, because she knows that Anya would hate it, would hate that Clarke is seeing it, much less a total stranger. 

 

She remembers how agitated Anya was, as Clarke worked to save her Second. She remembers how the woman’s mask splintered, and through the cracks Clarke had seen something raw and terrible, before she turned away. 

 

‘Why was it down to you to save her?’ asks Abby, drawing Clarke out of her memories. 

 

Clarke stays silent. She knows that she shouldn’t feel responsible for that girl’s death, that she should know that she was a casualty of war, and that there was nothing she could do. That is probably what Anya would think, if their roles were reversed. But she feels it, and there isn’t anything, for now, that she can do to stop it. 

 

Anya’s fevered ravings eventually quieten, and Abby leaves to talk with the Council, to let Clarke sleep. Clarke sits by Anya’s bed, and listens to the words she cannot understand. She catches another name in there, _Lexa_ , again and again, and once, she thinks she hears her own name.  

 

Clarke waits until the woman falls silent, the muscles in her neck loosening, before she retrieves the blanket from her own cot, and curls up in the chair, and tries to sleep. 

 

But after several hours of tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling, Clarke realises that sleep will not come to her easily. 

 

She can’t stop thinking about her people trapped in Mount Weather. They think that they’re safe. They think that they’ve found paradise, when there is a slaughterhouse hidden beneath the floorboards. How long, until they’re next? 

 

She'd told her mother her suspicions, the thoughts she’d had as she scrambled through the foliage and dirt with her hands bound in front of her. That the Grounders were immune to radiation, and yet the Mountain Men weren’t, because they’d been born and bread in a castle on a hill. Her people were born in the sky, within the reach of the sun’s radiation, and their immunity is greater. That means that those kids still trapped in the Mountain are in greater danger than they can imagine. It makes her feel sick. With her mind whirling through hundreds of scenarios, its not a surprise that she can’t sleep. 

 

Instead, she sits by Anya’s side and watches the Grounder woman breathe. 

 

She thinks of how Anya left her in the tunnels to die, and then came back for her. She knows that the woman said it was because she needed a prize to take back to her people, but as she sits there, she wonders how much of that was entirely true. Anya had escaped from Mount Weather, something that clearly hadn’t happened before. Surely that, the information of what was happening to their people, would’ve been enough for this mysterious Commander. 

 

She shakes her head. There is so much she doesn’t know about the Grounders. In Tristan, she saw the Savage that seems to be a stereotype of these people. In Lincoln, she’s seen something completely different, a fiercely protective man with a soft heart. In Anya, she’s seen neither, and she’s seen both. The woman is ferocious in battle, merciless when it comes to her foes, and always seems to keep to her word. But she’s something else, too. She remembers the way Anya cradled a dying man’s head in her hands, head bowed over him, those words echoing in the silence like a preyer. She remembers the way Anya had reached for her hand without seeming to hesitate, remembers how the woman had leaned against the container and stared down at the bodies of her people, and looking at her, Clarke had seen something desperately sad, something she’d only seen once, a flash when Anya turned away from the body of a girl with five scars on her back. She’s unsure what to make of this woman who once seemed so cold and murderous. Nothing is black and white, anymore. 

 

She wants to know more about them. She wants to know if there are more like Lincoln, and why he was so kind to Octavia when he didn’t know her. She wants to know if they’re all like that, deep in the most private parts of themselves, beneath layers and layers of aggression and anger and the raw instinct to survive. 

 

Maybe with peace, she can. She wonders what they would be like, without the threat of the Mountain, without the threat of losing their people. Because if she’s understood anything from her time with Anya in those tunnels, she’s understood that the Grounders care about their people. Everything they do, they seem to do for their people. Anya was unwilling to make peace with her on the bridge because of what had happened to her people, and yet she had come for that very reason. 

 

She wonders what the Commander is like. Whether she’s like Anya, cold and fierce and seemingly merciless, or whether she’s like Lincoln, or Tristan, or the Grounder who had scrambled to find the things she need to save Tris, or the man who bared his marks to her like he was proud of them, because he was. 

 

She wants to understand them, because she knows that if they do have peace, and thats a big if, and then if they do defeat the Mountain Men, that peace might disintegrate without a common enemy. 

 

She laughs suddenly, and its bitter and hollow in the silence. She’s getting ahead of herself. There is no guarantee that they will have peace, not after they nearly killed the one person who was willing to speak for them. 

 

‘Something funny?’ 

 

Clarke jerks to face the door, and is on her feet and running in a moment. She throws herself at Raven with enough force to send them both stumbling into a wall. She’s slightly surprised by how far they fall, as if Raven can’t keep herself up, but then the other girl’s arms go around her and she stops caring. She laughs shakily. ‘Should’ve known it would take more than a bullet to keep you down’. 

 

Raven stiffens slightly, but doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t comment on the words either, and Clarke remembers what her mother said about permanent damage. She pulls back, searching her friend’s face. ‘You are okay, aren’t you?’

 

Raven’s smile is strained. She gestures down at her leg, and Clarke realises that the girl is gripping her shoulders tightly, and that there is a metal brace strapped to her leg. Her heart sinks. ‘Nerve damage, according to Abby. But hey, it could’ve been worse, right?’

 

Clarke opens her mouth to say something, anything, _god Raven I’m sorry_ , but Raven cuts across her firmly, and Clarke realises that maybe the girl doesn’t want to hear any of it. ‘Are you doing okay?’

 

They sit, and Clarke shrugs. ‘I’m worried, for our people’. 

 

Raven smiles slightly. ‘Thats just like you’. Her smile vanishes as she looks at Anya, still and pale and oblivious to the world, and she frowns slightly. ‘Abby told me about what you said. You really think she’ll want to make peace, now?’

 

Clarke sighs, and shrugs, wincing slightly when the movement pulls at her shoulder. ‘I… I hope so. She was willing before we shot her. If she remembers why an alliance is so important, then yeah, I think she would’. 

 

Raven turns to look at her again, biting her lip slightly. ‘What happened, Clarke?’

 

Clarke tells her everything. Every last detail she can remember, from Dante Wallace’s placating smile to the Grounders strung up like animals, to bleed and die, because that was how the Mountain Men saw them. She tells her about the weapons, about the suits, about the fortress on the hill. She tells her about the bodies that landed on her, and the grunt of the Reaper pushing the container down the tunnel. She pulls the map she made from her bra and presses it into Raven’s hands because she feels like Mount Weather is stuck to her skin. 

 

When she’s done, Raven looks slightly nauseous. But all she says is, ‘We were so preoccupied with the Grounders that we never thought there could be something worse’. She sighs heavily. ‘The warnings were there, and we just didn’t listen’. 

 

Clarke remembers Lincoln’s words of warning, reported by Octavia despite the girl not understanding what he meant either, she remembers Anya’s words on the bridge, _they wouldn’t be the first to try_ , and wonders what might have happened if they had made peace that day. ‘We couldn’t have known. We thought we were alone down here’. They thought that twice, and both times, they were wrong. 

 

Earth is beautiful, but it also holds dangers that they are not prepared for, and Clarke is beginning to realise just how much they do need the Grounders’ help. 

 

Raven leaves with a promise to return soon, and to send Bellamy and Finn in when they return from their unneeded rescue mission, and Clarke doesn’t miss the emphasis she puts on _when._

 

Not much later, Abby and Jackson return with a tub of warm water and several clean cloths. Clarke lets her mother change her bandages, and then they leave her alone to wash herself. Clarke has the feeling that this is something of a luxury, and isn’t sure what it means. 

 

She feels better, when she’s stepped into clean clothes, the blood and dirt and sweat washed from her skin. She takes up her position by Anya’s bedside again and wishes she could do something. 

 

Clarke picks up a clean cloth that she didn’t use, and dips it into the water. Its cold, and not as clean as it was, and Clarke would ask for fresh, warm water, but she has the feeling that the Council wouldn’t extend the same hospitality to a Grounder who could still die. 

 

She takes one of Anya’s hands in her own, and starts by scrubbing the dirt and blood from her skin, as gently as she can. Her left forearm is clean and bandaged, but below her wrist and above her elbow her skin is still stained with dried mud and her own blood. She hopes that it's not infected. Anya’s hands are strong and callused, long fingers covered in cuts and scars. Clarke remembers the strength in her hands, as weak as Mount Weather made her, when she pulled her from the container. 

 

It is strangely soothing, taking the time to wash the grime from the woman’s hands, from her arms and shoulders. She doesn’t touch anywhere else, knowing better than to move her. Most of her torso is covered in thick white bandages, but Clarke wishes that they’d taken the gauze from Mount Weather. It makes her feel sick, looking at it. She pauses over the tattoo curling around the woman’s bicep, and wonders, not for the first time, what the Grounders’ tattoos signify. She wonders how many kill scars Anya has. 

 

She remembers how horrified she was when she realised that Tris had killed five people, and nearly laughs at the irony. She’s killed over three hundred people, and her skin is unmarred by it. She wonders if that is the reason why the Grounders mark their skin, to remember the blood on their hands. She imagines being branded with the lives she’s taken, and shivers. She wonders if she’d survive it. 

 

Clarke turns her attention to Anya’s face. Without the dirt and blood, without the ash inked into her eyes, highlighting the sharp slant of her cheekbones, the woman looks… softer. Not younger, not really, though Clarke isn’t sure how old she is. But in sleep, without the tension in her jaw, without the anger in her eyes, without the stone fortifying her expressions, she looks softer. 

 

Clarke isn’t quite sure why she feels like she’s looking at something that is meant to remain hidden, why she feels like staring at her is hinging on an invasion. 

 

Clarke knows that her mother is worried about infection, about the fact that she’d lost so much blood. Clarke presses the back of her hand against Anya’s forehead, feeling the heat of her skin, and tries not to let despair creep up on her. 

 

Clarke takes a seat again, and wraps her own blanket tightly around her, and tries to settle down. She’s afraid of leaving the woman, not because she thinks she’s in danger, but because Anya doesn’t know anyone here. She’d probably wake up and rip her stitches trying to get out, and she’d probably take several people down in the attempt. And then the Council wouldn’t listen to Clarke’s pleas for peace, never mind that her mother is the Chancellor, and that can’t happen.

 

She’s not letting this chance for peace slip through her fingers, not again. 

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

Since coming down to Earth, Clarke’s become a light sleeper. At first, it was the absence of the constant hum of electricity that did it. Later, it was the constant fear of attack from the Grounders. In Mount Weather, it was the sense of unease that she just couldn’t shake. 

 

When Clarke wakes, the light is dim, and she’s alone, and it takes her a moment to realise what is wrong. 

 

She’s alone. 

 

Anya is gone. 

 

Clarke surges to her feet with her heart in her mouth, pulse racing, panic churning in her stomach. She steps quickly towards the door, trips over the blanket tangled around her ankles, and stumbles into the cot, her hip slamming hard against the edge. She muffles a cry. 

 

Its only then, bending over the table with her eyes watering, that she sees the foot sticking out from the other side of the table. 

 

She finds Anya sitting with her back resting against the cot, a hand pressed to her stomach, features twisted in pain, a leg pulled up to her chest, and another stretched out before her. There is a scalpel clutched in her other hand. She’s panting, and when she looks at Clarke, her eyes are fevered and unseeing. She snarls. 

 

Clarke stretches her hands out, heart beating frantically against her ribs, and crouches down slowly, far enough away that Anya cannot reach her easily, and rests her hand lightly on the woman’s shin. She feels her tense beneath her hand. ‘Anya? Anya, its okay’. She wonders if she sounds as desperate as she feels. She can’t see whether the woman has pulled her stitches in this light. 

 

The woman stares at her in the dark, eyes wild and dull. Clarke glances at the scalpel in her hand and swallows. ‘Anya?’

 

Anya lunges at her with a strangled growl, hissing as her injury burns, and her movements are sluggish, weighed down by fever and blood loss, and Clarke snatches at her wrist, twisting instinctively until the woman drops it. She grips Anya’s shoulder with her other hand, ignoring the way the woman grabs at her, nails digging into her shoulders, because she’s weak, unsurprisingly, and there is something almost feeble about the way she scrabbles at her. ‘Anya!’ The woman takes a swing at her that Clarke ducks under, and she pushes Anya back against the cot, trying to restrain her without hurting her, worried about her injury. ‘Anya, its okay, you’re safe, its just me!’ 

 

She’s not sure exactly what does it, what breaks through the haze, but Anya stops fighting her so suddenly that Clarke stumbles into her. The woman leans against the cot, a hand pressed against her abdomen, and stares at her, and Clarke sees a spark of recognition flitter behind her eyes. ‘ _Klark_?'

 

She swallows. She’s reminded of that horrible moment of realisation, bending down to find Anya trapped behind the bars of a cage. ‘Yeah, Anya, its Clarke’. 

 

Anya stares at her, and in the dim light, all Clarke can see is a sliver of her face, a single dark eye, and what she can see tells her nothing. ‘Clarke…' she stops, and coughs once, but her voice is steel when she tries again. ‘Where am I?’ 

 

Clarke grabs the glass of water her mother left for her, and holds it out to the woman. She looks at it warily. Clarke sighs. ‘Its not poisoned, Anya’. 

 

The woman’s jaw seems to tighten, but she takes it after a moment, and Clarke pretends not to see her hand shaking. ‘You’re at our camp. Medical tent’. 

 

Anya looks down, and her voice is hard and accusing, ‘your people shot me’. 

 

Clarke tenses. She tries to read the slant of the woman’s shoulders, the set of her jaw, but as always with Anya, she’s almost impossible to read. ‘They did’. 

 

‘What happened to peace?’

 

‘They didn’t know who we were’. 

 

‘You’re making excuses for ignorance again’. 

 

Clarke pauses. Are they really back to this? ‘I made them save you’. 

 

That seems to have some sort of affect on the older woman. Her shoulders stiffen, and her jaw tightens, but when she lifts her eyes, they’re as unreadable as ever. ‘I remember…’ she trails off, and Clarke can see now that she’s trembling, that her brow is shining with sweat, and her eyes are still dull, despite how lucid she seems. ‘You screamed a lot’. She pauses, and Clarke wonders how much of the fever is talking. ‘Why did you fight for me?’

 

Clarke hesitates. Then she takes a deep breath, and says, ‘like you said, I need you’. 

 

In the silence, Clarke can hear nothing but Anya’s slightly ragged breathing. She breaks it by saying, ‘you should rest, Anya. You’re still feverish. You’ve lost a lot of blood’. 

 

Clarke feels the exasperation rolling off the woman, despite not being able to see much of her. ‘You and your people are so soft’. 

 

But still, Anya climbs back onto the cot, and Clarke lifts a hand to help her, only to pause when the woman turns to look at her. She lets her hand drop. Then she sighs. ‘Get well, Anya. And try not to pull any stitches. I didn’t fight this hard to have you die because you were being stubborn’. 

 

Anya’s eyes have unfocused, and she stares at Clarke without seeing her, and Clarke has the impression that the woman is trying to fight it, blinking rapidly in the darkness. Clarke sits down again, and she can feel the Anya's eyes boring into her. Then she says, her voice no less strong and hard despite the low volume at which she speaks, ‘do your people lock their enemies in cages?’

 

Clarke stares at her, and understands what she won’t ask for. ‘You’re not our enemy, Anya. So I won’t let them’. 

 

There is silence. And then, ‘good’. It’s a short, sharp syllable, and yet, it feels weighted. 

 

Maybe it's the closest thing to a thank you that she will ever get from Anya, but it feels like enough. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a few people suggest a Clarke/Lexa/Anya sort of relationship. I haven't quite decided yet, but I'm definitely intrigued. What do you think?
> 
> edit: i've chosen to go in a different direction with these three, but there will be plenty of interaction between them. i hope you're happy to see where this goes :)


	3. Chapter 3

Bellamy returns the next day, and Clarke feels the weight on her shoulders lift, just a little. 

 

She throws herself at him and lets him hold her and feels like she can breathe when she grabs Octavia as well. They’re both alive, they’re both okay, and its better news than she was expecting when she first saw that ballon lift into the sky. 

 

Bellamy searches her face with tired, concerned eyes, and Clarke is reminded of how far they've come. ‘You okay, Princess?’

 

Octavia touches her shoulder, fingers flittering over her bandage, and Clarke jerks her head back towards the medical tent, trying to keep her expression impassive. Its not until they’re nearly there that she realises whose missing. ‘Where’s Finn?’

 

Raven tenses when the Blake siblings exchange a weighted glance, and Clarke feels something like unease crawl up her spine. ‘He… he’s out looking for you’. Bellamy shoots a glance at Raven. ‘He’s… somethings off with him, Clarke. Really off. He’s changed’. 

 

‘We’ve all changed, Bellamy’. 

 

‘Not like this’. He shares another glance with Octavia. ‘We should go after him. He thinks the Grounders have you’. He pauses then, frowning. ‘Where were you, exactly?’ She sees something bright spark in his eyes. ‘Are the others okay?’

 

She hesitates. Its Raven who says, ‘we should wait until we’re out of hearing’. 

 

The Blake siblings look confused, and its an almost identical expression. Clarke can’t see their faces when they step into the tent, but she sees Bellamy’s shoulders tense. She can’t judge Octavia’s reaction. 

 

‘What happened?’ Octavia turns to look at her with an unreadable expression, and Clarke finds her eyes straying to the sword slung over her shoulder. 

 

She tells them, as quickly as she can, of Mount Weather, of the tunnels, of the Grounders strung up to die, of Anya’s agreement to make peace. It’s only when she says that, does she see surprise flicker across Octavia’s strangely impassive expression. She has a feeling that something has happened to the younger girl, and she’s almost afraid to ask. 

 

Bellamy looks down at Anya when she’s finished, his expression conflicted, but his hands are loose by his sides. ‘And you trust her?’

 

Clarke nods immediately, not because she does unquestionably (because Anya is as unpredictable as this Earth they do not understand), but because she needs them to believe that she does. She says, ‘Anya seems like the type to keep her word. And she wants her people freed just as much as we do. So yeah, I trust her’. She wishes that she felt as confident as she sounds. But she won’t know whether Anya is to be trusted again, however much she might want to, until the woman has woken up, without fever clouding her words. Only then will Clarke be able to tell. 

 

Bellamy’s jaw tightens. ‘I don’t’. 

 

She puts her hand on his arm. ‘Then trust me’.

 

He looks at her for a long time, before nodding once, and Clarke sighs in relief. ‘We need this alliance, Bellamy. We can’t take on the Grounders and Mount Weather, and we can’t take on Mount Weather without help’. 

 

Octavia speaks up. ‘We need to go after Finn’. Her voice is tight and there is a hint of panic in her eyes. ‘He executed a Grounder to get information about where you were. If he keeps killing them…’ she trails off, and Clarke doesn’t need her to finish her sentence. 

 

Clarke stares at her. Raven echoes her disbelief. ‘Finn wouldn’t do that’. 

 

‘Well he did’, snaps Octavia, eyes hard, ‘and we better find him before he does it again’. 

 

‘We can’t leave Anya like this’, says Clarke, her stomach churning. She’s torn between racing after the boy who she came so close to loving, her friend, and staying with the woman who could still die, and who doesn't know another soul here. ‘If she wakes up, and she’s alone…’ she stops. She’s not sure what worries her most, the idea of Anya waking up and trying to get out and hurting people in the process, or the guards coming upon her awake and panicking at the sight of an unrestrained Grounder. 

 

‘I’ll stay with her’, says Raven, arms folded tightly over her chest. ‘I can’t come with you. I’ll slow you down’. 

 

The four of them exchange a look. ‘Its not going to be easy getting out, is it?’ asks Bellamy. 

 

‘No. My mom won’t let me leave’. 

 

‘So we don’t tell her’. 

 

Clarke hesitates. Then she nods. They have to do what they have to do, no matter who it hurts. 

 

Raven pushes off the wall, eyes hard with determination. ‘Wait here’. 

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

She comes back with guns for them, and a pack filled with water bottles and a couple of snacks.

 

Bellamy looks more at ease with the gun slung over his shoulder. Clarke takes the bag, and Raven says, ‘I’ve disabled the fence for now. You should be quick’. She looks at Clarke. ‘Bring him back’. 

 

Clarke nods. She wants to hug her friend again, but there is a sense of urgency in the air. Instead she says, ‘tell my mom I love her’. 

 

Raven nods. ‘Let me worry about Abby’, she hesitates, ‘and Anya. Just get back quickly’. 

 

No one stops them when they leave. 

 

Its only when they’re under the cover of the trees that Clarke allows herself to relax slightly. She tries not to think about what they’re going to find, or about the look in Octavia's eyes when she told her what Finn had done. 

 

Instead, she says, ‘Octavia, where’s Lincoln?’

 

The girl’s expression breaks apart, just for a second, and then her jaw clenches, and her face hardens. She says nothing, and that says everything. 

 

Clarke feels her throat tighten. She wants to reach for her friend, but she doesn’t think Octavia would appreciate it. Instead, she swallows hard, and tries to focus on running without falling, without tripping over the uneven ground. She hears Anya’s dry, unamused words, _you’re like a child,_ and almost smiles. Almost. 

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

Anya chokes awake with images of cages and limp bodies burning behind her eyes. 

 

She lies there and stares up at the ceiling through slitted eyes, trying to gather her bearings. She feels groggy and disorientated, and struggles to keep her breathing even. 

 

The first thing she registers is the pain in her torso, just beneath her ribs. Its like a burning ache that throbs and pulses in time to her heartbeat, and the more she focuses on it, the more it burns. She swallows, and grits her teeth. She _hates_ the Sky people. 

 

She remembers reaching out in the dark to grasp Clarke’s arm, for peace, for their people. She remembers —   

 

 _Pain._ Fire ripping through her torso, a burning hot coal that tore through her skin and pulled her apart as it went. 

 

She remembers little else, nothing more than flashes, Clarke’s face, covered in mud and blood, eyes wide with horror. Screaming. Foreign hands on her skin. Something sharp picking at her wound. A damp cloth skimming over her skin. 

 

She remembers thinking she was going to die. 

 

She remembers accepting it. 

 

And now she’s lying on a hard, unforgiving surface, with bandages restricting her breathing. She’s cold, and she’s hungry, and her throat is raw. 

 

And she’s not alone. 

 

She opens her eyes slowly, and turns her head. She expects to see Clarke, but instead, she sees a young woman she doesn’t know sitting by her side. 

 

Anya sits bolt up right, and pain shoots up through her torso, pulling a groan from her throat before she can stop it. The woman is on her feet, a hand on her shoulder, and Anya flinches away from the foreign touch, snarling, despite the stars dancing behind her eyes. 

 

‘Hey, hey! I’m not going to hurt you, okay?’ The woman holds her hands up, and takes a step back, and it is that, more than her words, that calms Anya down. The woman seems to see it, because she says gently, ‘just take it easy, okay? Clarke will have my head if you pull your stitches’. 

 

Anya frowns, hiding a wince as she swings her legs over the side of the table. She stares at the young woman. She looks exhausted, and she has dark, haunted eyes. Anya studies her, head slightly tilted. She knows it unnerves the Sky people. But the woman meets her stare head on, her jaw clenched, arms folded. Finally, Anya says, ‘Who are you?’

 

The woman doesn’t smile. ‘Raven’. She doesn’t stick out her hand. 

 

Interesting. 

 

Raven gestures at her bandages. ‘Well, did you pull anything?’

 

Anya glances down. Her bandages are still crisp and clean. It's only looking down that she realises she’s still wearing the material from Mount Weather. Bile rises in her throat, and she reaches up a hand to hook her fingers under the material. 

 

‘Do you want to change?’ 

 

Anya looks up, and narrows her eyes slightly. She’s debating whether to accept the woman’s unspoken offer, to accept her help, or to refuse it. She knows these people, and she knows that if she does, Raven will see it as something of a white flag. She doesn’t want these people’s help. But despite being far away from the Mountain, she feels like its still clinging to her skin. She feels like she can still smell the fear of her people, the stench of their corpses. She wants it gone. 

 

She nods. Then, ‘I would like to wash’. It's not quite a question, but the other woman’s expression softens slightly. 

 

She crosses the tent, and Anya notices that the woman has a slight limp. There is a strange object strapped to her leg. Anya frowns slightly, recognising it as a limb brace. She wonders how this woman could’ve injured her leg so badly, so young. She does not recognise this woman from the battle that incinerated three hundred of her people, and it is unusual, among her people, for anyone but their warriors to suffer such an injury so young. Perhaps it happened when she fell from the sky.  

 

Raven drags a large metal tub over, water slopping gently over the sides. ‘Clarke thought you might. You’re going to have to deal with cold water’. 

 

Anya snorts. ‘We do not always have the luxury of heating up water. We are not so soft’. 

 

Raven straightens up, wincing slightly, and rolls her eyes. ‘Whatever, man’. She faces her again, crossing her arms. ‘I’m just…’ she stops and sighs heavily.  ‘Look, the main thing is, you shouldn’t be leaving this tent, okay, not until Clarke gets back at least. These people don’t trust you’. 

 

Anya raises her eyebrows slightly. ‘Will they shoot me again?’

 

Raven shrugs. ‘Are you going to go around attacking people with a scalpel?’

 

Anya frowns at her, and Raven sees genuine confusion in her eyes. ‘What?’

 

‘You attacked Clarke with a scalpel last night. You’ve had a fever’. Raven narrows her eyes. ‘You don’t remember, do you?’

 

‘No’. Anya hesitates. She wants to know what else she did. Not because she’s worried about who she might have hurt, but because she’s seen people in the throes of fever. She knows that they speak sometimes. That they spill the things closest to their hearts. What secrets might she have revealed to these strangers?

 

Raven gestures at the tub. ‘I’ll get some clothes’. 

 

Anya stays leaning against the cot for a while, staring at the surface of the water. Whenever she blinks, she sees that faces of her people, locked behind bars, strung up to bleed, dumped into the dirt for the Reapers to eat. 

 

She walks to the tub slowly, testing her legs, and is pleased to find that they’re steady. She feels hollow, hunger gnawing at her belly. She puts her hands on either side of the tub and leans down. 

 

Its only then, staring at her pale reflection, that she realises that someone braided her hair. Something in her heart tightens. It is a very intimate thing among their people, the act of braiding another’s hair. It signals trust and respect, the act of turning your back to another, of letting their finger’s near your neck, one of the most vulnerable places. It is something reserved for lovers, for family, for mentors and their seconds. 

 

The last person to braid Anya’s hair was Tris. And with her fevered dreams still fogging her mind, sticking like cobwebs behind her eyes, Anya can almost feel the ghost of the girl’s fingers threading through her hair. She shakes her head in an attempt to clear it, staring down into the water, and wondering why now, of all times, she can’t seem to hold her weaknesses at bay. 

 

That is where Raven finds her, leaning against the tub and staring at her reflection. Anya hears her pause, and approach slowly. 

 

‘Hey’, her voice is low, gentle, as if she’s talking to a wild, wounded animal, ‘you okay?’ When Anya says nothing, Raven says, ‘do you need help?’

 

Anya turns to look at her, a sharp movement that makes her head spin slightly. She hisses, ‘I’m not an invalid’. 

 

Raven frowns. She dumps the clothes on the cot, and pats her leg, her head slightly tilted. ‘Neither am I. Doesn’t mean I can’t accept help’.

 

Anya straightens up, and turns to face her, her expression as smooth as stone. She stares at her for a long moment, and Raven meets it with one of her own. She’s not exactly sure why the Grounders seem to have a habit of staring at you. Maybe they’re trying to see if you’ll back down under pressure. Raven tilts her chin up, and waits for the other woman to break the silence. 

 

‘Raven!’ 

 

Raven jumps, and she sees Anya tense slightly, as Abby comes running into the tent. The woman looks frantic, eyes wide with panic, and something else that might be rage. _Shit_ , thinks Raven, turning to meet her. She hadn’t exactly relished having to break the news to Abby, but she hadn’t really expected the woman to look so accusing. 

 

‘Did you know about this?’ Raven takes a step back, just so she can see the object that Abby is holding. She reads it quickly, and bites her lip. Abby slams it down on Anya’s cot, apparently oblivious to the fact that they have company. ‘Where is she? 

 

‘Abby, I don’t know what you’re talking about’. She hates to lie to the woman whose become something of a mother figure to her, but Clarke needs her to put them off for as long as possible. 

 

Abby’s jaw tightens. There is something forcibly calm in her voice when she says, ‘somebody cut the electricity to the fences. I know that was you. Where is she?’

 

‘Look, Abby, you let Bellamy and Finn go to find Clarke. Clarke’s trying to make sure this alliance with the Grounders’ doesn’t fall apart any more than it has’. She jerks her thumb over her shoulder at Anya, whose listening the conversation with slightly narrowed eyes. ‘The last opportunity nearly slipped through her fingers, thanks to those trigger happy guards. She doesn’t want it to happen again. I would’ve thought that, as Chancellor, you would understand the wisdom in that’. 

 

Abby exhales sharply. She looks no less tense, and Raven isn’t sure if she’s made it worse or better. ‘Raven, please, just tell me where my daughter is’. Something in her expression breaks. ‘She thinks that because of what’s happened to her, she’s changed. She’s still just a child’. 

 

There is a strange sound, something between a scoff and a snort. The two women turn to look at Anya, and Raven jumps. The Grounder woman is standing a lot closer than she thought, close enough that Raven can feel the heat radiating from her skin. 

 

The woman is staring at Abby, and though her expression gives nothing away, her eyes are dark. ‘You are the leader of these people, and yet you let your decisions be clouded by weakness’. The woman shakes her head. ‘Clarke is doing what needs to be done for her people. That is not the action of a child’. 

 

Abby stares at Anya as if she’s slapped her. Her jaw works. Then her eyes flick down to the bandages covering her torso. Her brow furrows. ‘You were really going to make peace with us?’

 

Anya nods. ‘We have a common enemy’. She pauses. ‘Your daughter tried to make peace with me once before. I would have turned her down, because she told me that she could not guarantee that your people would honour our agreement when they came down from the sky’. She tilts her head. ‘I hope that you are more like your daughter than your trigger happy friends’.

 

Raven manages to disguise her shock better than Abby. Raven reaches out and touches the woman’s shoulder, and takes it as a good sign that she doesn’t flinch away. ‘Abby… Clarke knows what she’s doing. _Trust her_ ’. 

 

The anger seems to drain from Abby all at once. She sighs heavily, and leans against Anya’s cot. She scrubs a hand over her face, and then addresses Anya. ‘Let me look at those stitches. Clarke told me that you might have done some damage when you woke up last night’. 

 

Raven takes a deep breath, feeling the tension in the room ease. ‘I’m going to get you some food’. 

 

She comes back to find Anya alone, leaning against the cot. Her bandages have been removed. The wound is an ugly brand against her skin. The stitches are neat, precise, but the skin is raw and red. Raven knows from experience that Abby likes to be as careful and as neat as possible, to reduce chance of scarring, but she doesn’t think that Anya will be left without a reminder of her brush with death. 

 

‘Wait till Clarke hears about your praise’. She doesn’t bother to hide the amusement in her voice, because it allows her to disguise the other, more complicated emotions. She feels strangely grateful. She’s never seen Abby so worked up, so tightly wound, and for a moment there, she’d thought that the woman was going to hit her.  

 

Anya scowls. ‘Clarke seems to be the only one who wants to honour our agreement’.

 

‘You didn’t even want to consider peace when we came to you last time’. 

 

Anya’s scowl deepens. ‘I came to the bridge, didn’t I?’

 

Raven opens her mouth, and then shuts it again, a little taken aback. 

 

She remembers how they’d all praised Jasper (except Octavia, except Finn, because maybe they’d known better), for his quick thinking on the bridge. Now she wonders; what if the Grounders in the trees were there for the exact same reason Clarke asked Bellamy to bring company? If Jasper hadn’t started shooting, would there have been peace? Would things have been different? She looks down at her leg, and stops that train of thought in its tracks. What’s done is done. She just has to hope that they can do better now. 

 

With that in mind, she says, ‘are you going to accept my help?’

 

Anya’s eyes stray down to Raven’s leg, and Raven clenches her jaw, wondering what the woman is thinking. She doesn’t see pity in her eyes, but then again, she doesn’t really see anything. Anya nods, once, her expression unreadable. 

 

She turns her back and steps towards the tub, and for the first time Raven sees that there are tattoo’s inked into the woman’s back, symbols climbing her spine, and thin curling lines disappearing up beneath the gauze like material. With her back still to her, Anya gestures. ‘Can you make a cut at the back?’ she speaks sharply, like an order, but when Raven picks up the scalpel and steps towards her, she realises that the woman is incredibly tense. 

 

It occurs to her that this is a greater sign of faith than she’d originally realised. It cannot be easy for one of the Grounders, especially one whose nearly died at their hands, to let a stranger approach her with a weapon. She’s only allowing it out of necessity.

 

Raven pushes the woman’s thick braid over her shoulder, and cuts the material carefully down the middle. It’s only then that she gets a clear look at the woman’s tattoos. There are three unique symbols climbing her spine, one just below her neck, another in the centre, and the third in the small of her back. Her spine is framed by gently curling lines that expand and become thicker across her shoulder blades. Raven is reminded of wings, or fire. 

 

There are scars there, too, and Raven remembers what Clarke said about kill marks. She sees a pattern below Anya’s left shoulder blade, a spiral of neat squares that curls outwards, looping around and around. Raven is struck by the thought that it is the ugly wound, the stitches, that look more foreign against Anya’s skin than her tattoos and scars. 

 

She blinks, and steps away, becoming aware that she is staring. She leans against the cot and watches out of the corner of her eyes as Anya steps into the tub, her back still to her. She wants to ask about the tattoos, because she has a vague memory of Lincoln’s, and these are entirely different. She wants to ask her about her kill marks. 

 

She listens to the sound of water splashing against the sides of the tub. Eventually, she feels eyes on her, and turns to see Anya looking at her over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. The woman says, ‘you are not’.

 

Raven blinks. ‘I’m not what?’

 

‘An invalid’. 

 

Raven stares at her. Then she says slowly, almost bitterly, ‘is it common to have cripples among your people?’

 

Anya’s eyebrows raise slightly, before she turns away again, running the cloth up and down her arms. ‘If one of our warriors loses the use of a limb fighting for our people, than they are considered brave. It is a sign of honour for a clan to contain a cripple, as you say. It is a sign that we are dedicated to our people, and that we will do whatever we can to defend them, no matter the consequences to ourselves’. 

 

Raven swallows tightly, blinking back the burn behind her eyes. She breaths slowly and shakily, her hand coming up to rest on her leg. ‘What do they do, these cripples? Stay at camp, feel sorry for themselves, forced to deal with people’s pity?’ She cannot help how pained she sounds, how resentful. 

 

‘They only pity you because they think it has changed you by restricting your movements’.

 

‘It has changed me’. 

 

Anya turns sideways in the tub so that she can look at her more closely, her arm resting across its edge. Raven doesn’t want to look at her. There is silence for a moment. Then, ‘our warriors learn to work with their injury. They learn to walk with aid. They learn to fight again’. She pauses, and her voice softens slightly, and it is that, perhaps more than this entire conversation, that startles Raven. ‘They learn to live with it’. 

 

She turns to look at the woman finally. Anya’s expression is unreadable in the light, and she looks almost comical sitting there in the tub, where Raven can see nothing below the slope of her shoulder. And yet there is something in her eyes that is difficult to decipher. All Raven knows is that it’s not pity. She thinks that Anya might be the first person to look at her without a shred of pity lurking in her eyes. Raven swallows tightly. ‘I’m trying’. 

 

Anya’s expression does not change, but she nods once before turning away. _‘Yu ste yuj, Reivon kom Skaikru’._

 

Raven does not want to ask what the woman has said. She leaves Anya alone to wash, standing outside the tent. Out in the fresh air, she tilts her head up to the sky and breaths deeply, trying to calm the way her heart is racing. _They learn to live with it_. She’d thought that without the proper use of her leg, she’d be somewhat vulnerable down here. She’d thought it would hold her back, no matter how much she’d pretended otherwise. She feels lighter somehow, now, with Anya’s words ringing in her head. She leans against the tent pole, looking down at her leg. 

 

She only recognised one word in the foreign language. She tests it, rolling it around on her tongue. _Reivon_. She’s not sure why it feels so weighted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm absolutely blown away by all your feedback thank you so much. 
> 
> I've given all your suggestions a lot of thought. I won't reveal exactly what I've decided, but you'll find out soon enough. Regardless, there will be a lot of Clarke/Lexa/Anya interaction in terms of well, trust and support. This is after all an Anya lives fix it. Regardless of the relationships, I hope that you see this through. 
> 
> And yes, I erased the scene where Abby slaps Raven because that was awful. Heres how I see it - Abby would never harm Clarke, and her relationship with Raven became something like a mother-daughter thing on the Ark, in my opinion. 
> 
> Also, Anya's back tattoo is based off the picture that was released of what Jason was thinking of for Lexa's tattoo, because that is actually a picture of Dichen's back. Which makes me angry. Because it means that at some point, Anya was meant to live. She was meant to have a greater storyline which would some how evolve into us seeing her back. I'm heartbroken. Discovering that is actually what made me decide to write this. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed :)


	4. Chapter 4

When Clarke marches into the Medical tent, Anya’s first thought is that there is something very wrong. 

 

The emotions brewing behind Clarke’s eyes form a complicated picture, disbelief and shock and something boarding on horror. It makes her eyes look haunted. Her shoulders are tense, and her hands are shaking by her sides. She looks more distressed than Anya has ever seen her. 

 

Anya tries not to let the prickle of alarm she experiences show. 

 

Clarke stops just inside the door, momentarily forgetting what has happened at the sight of Anya sitting on the cot, legs crossed under her. Her feet are bare, and she’s wearing Sky people clothes, dark pants and a worn, white shirt, through which Clarke can see the edge of her bandages, the dark outline of her tattoo. Her hair is damp, curling thickly down her back, and Clarke can see that her skin is clean. All and any signs of Mount Weather are gone, and it nearly makes her smile. 

 

Anya is turning over something bright and sharp in her hands, and she glances once at Clarke before looking down again. ‘Your people will not survive the winter with these clothes’. 

 

Clarke sighs heavily, and doesn’t bother to disguise how strained she feels. ‘We can worry about the winter once we’ve dealt with Mount Weather’. 

 

The object stills, and Clarke realises its a scalpel. Her mother really needs to stop leaving those around. Anya looks up at her, her eyes dark curious, a hint of concern written in the line between her brows. ‘What’s happened, Clarke?’

 

Clarke swallows. She’d come to the woman because she couldn’t be around Finn and his confusion, the way he looked at her like he felt betrayed that she didn’t understand what he’d done. But she’s just realised that Anya is not going to react very well towards the news. 

 

She tells her what happened, as quickly as possible, watching the woman carefully. Anya’s hand tightens on the scalpel, and her jaw works, and when she turns to look at her, Clarke sees fire in her eyes. The older woman stands and turns away from Clarke, her shoulders tight. Beneath the thin shirt, Clarke can see dark tattoos inked into her skin. She narrows her eyes, trying to get a better look, interested despite herself. She’s found herself fascinated by Grounder tattoos, this art that dates back to long before the bombs dropped. She can’t see them very clearly, but looking, she realises that Anya is breathing heavily, the muscles in her shoulders and back tensing, as if she’s trying to hold herself back. Clarke is reminded of a wild cat poised to spring. 

 

‘How many people did your _friend_ murder, Clarke?’

 

She swallows heavily, wanting, wishing, that she could say something different. ‘Eighteen’. 

 

She hears Anya suck in a breath, and every muscle in her back seems to tense. ‘The people in that village were vulnerable, Clarke. Children and elders. _Families_. They were not warriors’. Her voice trembles, and Clarke doesn’t know if its from anger, or something else, something like grief, like sorrow. ‘What happened to peace?’

 

There are a hundred things she could say, and they would all be true. She could say that war changed Finn. She could say that he didn’t know about the alliance, and they he was looking for her. She could say that they haven’t even made an alliance yet. She could say that Finn didn’t know about the Mountain Men, and went with what he believed in. But she also knows that Anya hates excuses. So all she says is, ‘I’m sorry, Anya’, and god, she means it. 

 

She watches Anya’s shoulders drop slightly. That is all she can see, all she can judge. 

 

She hears the woman take a deep breath, and when she turns, Clarke sees that she’s wearing that mask again, and all she can see is the fire in her eyes. ‘I need those clothes we found in the tunnels. And any of my peoples weapons. I’m sure you have a few’. 

 

Clarke moves forward, but stops. There is something very calm in Anya's expression. Something cold and removed. She will not appreciate zany display of concern or familiarity right now. ‘Okay, okay, wait here’. 

 

It takes longer than she would like to find what Anya’s asked for. She finds that the clothes were washed and put aside to be redistributed, and she has to suffer through a long argument with a guard before she finally gets her hands on a Grounder's sword. She decides not to tell Anya that it's come from a prisoner leading Kane on a peace mission. 

 

She returns to the Medical to find a crowded and tense atmosphere. Anya is standing at the back, the scalpel clutched in her hand, and her eyes are fixed on Finn, whose watching her warily. Bellamy is pacing, and Raven is leaning on Anya’s cot, watching her former boyfriend with conflicted eyes. She looks like she’s torn between going to him, and holding herself back. 

 

Abby turns as Clarke steps into Medical, and Clarke sees her expression flicker through a variety of emotions; anger, relief and frustration, before settling into something that looks like pride. ‘Clarke, I’m glad you’re back’. 

 

Clarke nods at her mother, before stepping past her and handing the clothes to Anya. The Grounder woman slips the jacket over her shirt and switches pants quickly. Clarke hands her a pair of boots that Anya accepts without a word, before handing her the sword. Anya’s knuckles whiten when she grips the sword and when she straps it to her back, its like watching someone find a piece of themselves. Anya looks more at ease with her hand on a weapon, like she feels more in control of her surroundings. 

 

‘What are you going to do?’ asks Clarke, mainly to put off her mother, who has moved up to stand by her side. Clarke can see how alarmed Abby looks at the sight of a Grounder with a weapon. 

 

Anya’s eyes slip from her face to stare at Finn, fire and rage dampened by a cold practicality that Clarke has seen once before. ‘I’m going to talk to the Commander. Maybe I can save this alliance that your people seem to keep forgetting we need’. 

 

Clarke swallows. ‘You shouldn’t travel yet’. 

 

Anya scoffs. ‘I’ve fought wars with worse, Clarke’. She stares at Clarke, dark eyes heavy with something Clarke cannot read. ‘I am doing what needs to be done for my people’.

 

‘At least take someone with you’. 

 

Anya seems to tense. She stares at Finn again. ‘Thanks to your _friend_ here, anyone I bring with me would probably be killed on sight’.

 

Abby speaks up. ‘Marcus left to try and seek peace with your Commander before you arrived. Would he…’ she trails off, and Clarke sees some undefinable emotion in her mother’s eyes. 

 

Anya levels a hard stare at her. ‘ _Jus drein jus daun’,_ the words roll off her tongue with such solemnity that Clarke feels her throat tighten. ‘Blood must have blood. The only reason I do not strike down that  _ripa_ is because his death is owed to the families of those he killed’.

 

Raven makes a move to stand in front of Finn, but Bellamy holds her back. Anya addresses Clarke again. ‘Do not leave the camp. My people will want justice for what was done. They will kill you, if they catch you’. 

 

‘Wait’, says Abby, stepping forward slightly. Anya’s eyes flare in warning. ‘If you are so focused on vengeance, how can we be sure that you won’t just leave, and turn on us?’

 

Anya hisses, low and furious. ‘I keep my word, _Abi kom Skaikru._ I cannot promise peace, but I can do my best' _._

 

Clarke touches her mother’s arm. ‘I trust Anya, Mom. If you don’t trust her, just trust me’.

 

She sees something shift in Anya’s eyes, unreadable, and yet strangely telling. She bows her head, and Abby sighs. ‘Alright. Go’.

 

Bellamy stands as Anya moves forward. ‘I’ll make sure no one tries to stop her’. 

 

Clarke nods at him, grateful. She’s picturing Anya being shot in the back, and she thinks that this time, she wouldn’t survive it. She wants to tell the woman to be careful, to not take unnecessary risks with her injury, but she knows that Anya would not appreciate it, especially not here, and now. So she lets Anya pass her without a word, trying to convey something in her expression, whether its faith or concern. She doesn’t know if she’s successful, because Anya’s expression does not change.

 

At the door, Anya looks over her shoulder, and speaks to the room in general. ‘I hope that you are willing to do what needs to be done’. 

 

She’s gone in a second, Bellamy hurrying after her, and Clarke takes a deep breath, and tries to push down her concern and worry. Because she knows what Anya was talking about. The Grounders do not forgive easily. She glances at Finn, whose jaw is set, his eyes downcast, and wonders when he began to be so unrecognisable. 

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

Anya finally stops walking just outside what was once her village. She crouches down in the foliage, her hand resting against the rough bark of a tree. She feels shaky, and she’s breathing a little too heavily, her side burning. She takes a deep breath, and bows her head against her hand, taking a moment to steady herself, to gather her strength. She can hear movement beyond the walls, dozens of feet, the gentle sounds of horses, weapons clinking together. She knows that if she rounds the other side of the wall, she’ll find tends spreading out into the clearing, into the fringes of the trees. She guessed that the Commander would come here, with her army. Its close to the Sky people, and they’ll be protecting the people Anya left behind when she took three hundred warriors into the night to die. 

 

Once she’s among her people again, she won’t be able to show any sign of this weakness, no matter how much her side might ache. Especially since she’s the lone survivor of three hundred warriors defeated by a single Sky girl. She’ll need to show her people that she’s just as strong as they remember, stronger, even. She cannot afford to flinch, not if there is any chance of convincing them that this peace is what they need. 

 

She thinks of her people trapped in cages, and takes another deep breath, and locks her emotions away, locks her weakness behind a mask that she’s spent years perfecting. 

 

She hears a twig snap behind her, and stands quickly, her sword out before she’s fully straightened. She turns sharply, and freezes. ‘ _Indra_?’

 

She sees surprise flash in the older woman’s eyes before its gone, replaced by stone. ‘ _Anya. We thought you were dead’._

 

It is indescribably good to hear her own language again. She almost smiles. ‘ _Not yet’._

 

Indra looks her up and down, taking in the foreign clothing, the slight protrusion of her collar bone that speaks of her days locked in a cage, the faint pallor to her skin, her expression unreadable.

 

Anya watches the woman carefully, waiting for her judgement. She doesn’t know what her former mentor thinks of her, whether she believes her to be weak because she failed at destroying the Sky people. She doesn’t know whether her return is welcome, or if Indra will see her as a traitor now. 

 

She waits for the woman to speak. Then, finally, she says, ‘ _Good’._ Indra sheaths her sword, and Anya does the same, and then the dark skinned woman steps forward and clasps her arm, pulls her forward, and momentarily grips her shoulder. Anya feels relief expand in her chest, and finds it easy to ignore the sharp stab of pain that shoots up her spine at the rough movement. 

 

Indra steps back, face as impassive as ever, and Anya dips her head, unable to prevent a slight smile from pulling at her lips. She’d nearly forgotten how stoic her former mentor is, even in her softer moments. 

 

‘ _I have a message, for the Commander’._

 

Indra nods. ‘ _Follow me. Once you’ve given it, we’ll get you some proper clothing. You reek of Sky people’._

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

It's not until she sees Lexa standing before the war table that Anya feels some of the tension ease from her. 

 

The Commander is surrounded by her Generals, and the atmosphere is so thick that you could cut it with a knife. Angry voices carry towards her, but when Indra’s voice cuts through them, they quieten. ‘ _Heda’._

 

Lexa turns to face her. She wears a mask of polished marble, and even without the ash, she looks every bit the hard, strong Commander Anya remembers. But when Lexa sees Anya, when the sight of her standing there in the doorway seems to resister, her mask flickers, and drops. Its just for a moment, a split second that Anya is sure the other Generals do not see, standing behind their Commander, but she sees it, and the intensity of the emotions revealed momentarily stuns her. She sees shock and disbelief, and then relief, flooding her expression with warmth, a flicker of light the darkness. And then Lexa blinks, and the light is gone, and her expression is passive. 

 

Anya feels pride spark in her heart, and bows her head to hide it, to hide her own emotions, to hide how much that flicker of emotion in her former Second affected her.  _‘Heda’._

 

 _‘Anya. You’re alive’._ She pauses. ‘ _I am glad’._ Her voice remains passive, unaffected, and Anya feels that spark grow.  _‘Leave us. We shall continue this Council when I’ve heard Anya's report’._

 

The Generals depart with murmurs of _Heda_ echoing in their wake, and Lexa nods at Gustus once they’re all gone. 

 

Anya keeps her head bowed until she hears the door close behind him. When she lifts her head, Lexa is standing in the same position, arms folded over her chest, her expression unreadable. 

 

There is silence. Anya can see something brewing in her leader's eyes, and she waits for her to do something. 

 

Finally, she says, ‘ _what happened to you?’_ and Anya can hear the weight in those words. 

 

She takes a deep breath, and tells Lexa everything. She watches her Commander’s expression as she talks. She sees anger develop into blazing fury in her dark eyes when she talks about the Mountain. She tells her of Clarke, and the tunnels, and the waterfall. When she tells her about the decision to make peace, she sees something harden in Lexa’s eyes. The Commander cuts across her, ‘ _have you heard about what one of their people has done?’_

 

Anya nods, her voice thick with rage, _‘and he should pay. But Heda, I believe we should make peace with them. The Mountain Men must pay for what they’ve done’._

 

Lexa considers her words. But when she speaks again, its to say, _‘why did you not come straight here, after your agreement with this…Clarke?'_

 

Anya hesitates.  _‘I made the agreement with Clarke, without the knowledge of her people. They mistook me for a threat, and they shot me’._

 

Lexa’s eyes widen, and her mask slips again, concern furrowing her brow. ‘ _Let me see’._

 

Anya shrugs off her sword and lets the jacket drop into the dirt. She lifts the thin shirt up, and Lexa steps closer, her hands coming up to hover over her skin, just shy of actually touching her, her expression openly concerned. It has been a long time since Lexa was this close to her, with her mask gone. Not since Costia’s death, since that one night where Lexa allowed herself to break down and mourn, and cried silently against Anya’s hair, and Anya allowed herself to pretend that Lexa was nothing more than the younger sister she’d never had. She’d held the new Commander long into the night and forgotten about weakness and strength and what horrors love could do to a person. After that night, Lexa rebuilt her walls from the ashes of the funeral pyre, fortified with iron and blood, and pushed her former mentor away, pushed away anyone who could remind her that she was anything more than the Commander she needed to be. After peace was established between the clans, and the Ice Nation returned to their frozen mountains, Lexa sent Anya away from Polis, and away from her. 

 

Before sky fell, it had been almost three months since Anya had last seen her former second. 

 

Lexa steps back, concern gone, but her expression is not as closed as it was before. ‘ _And you want to make peace with them, after this?’_

 

 _‘I want to do what is necessary to save our people, Heda. I do not trust these Sky People, but I do trust Clarke’._ Once, that might have been an exaggeration, but Anya remembers Clarke screaming and fighting, she remembers her saying _I trust Anya._ She knows that the girl will do what needs to be done for her people. She trusts _that_. 

 

Lexa bites her lip, an unexpected display of her conflict. Anya knows that she it one of the few people in whose presence Lexa will be anything more than the Commander she has to be, because she is a link to Lexa’s time before the responsibility was dropped on her shoulders. The other is Gustus. Costia was another. 

 

Lexa stares up at Anya for a long time.  _‘One of their people came to ask for peace, and I believed his intentions were honourable, until the massacre. I was going to let him return with a warning’._

 

Anya hears the slight question. She hesitates.  _‘Make the boy pay, not his people. Let him suffer the punishment of such a crime. We can overrun them, and some of us will die, but we can also use them. Clarke was inside the Mountain. She saw parts of it that I did not’._ She hears a slight tinge of anger colour her voice before she’s really registered that she’s feeling it.  _‘We could be rid of the Mountain Men, Heda, once and for all’._

 

Lexa tilts her head slightly, considering the woman’s words.  _‘Blood must have blood, Anya’._

 

_‘And the Mountain Men have spilt more of ours than any of these Sky people’._

 

Lexa nods instantly.  _‘That is true’._ Her eyes search Anya’s face. Then, ‘ _I know that it is not easy to earn your trust’._ She nods again, almost to herself. ‘ _I trust your council, Anya. I will meet with this Clarke of the Sky People’._

 

Its not until Lexa has said those words that Anya realises how worried she’d been about Lexa turning the offer down. She’d imagined preparing for war, imagined breaching the walls of their camp and slaughtering their people, of seeing the despair and betrayal in Clarke’s eyes

 

Lexa seems to hesitate, as if waging a war with herself. Something in her eyes softens. If Lexa has ever had one weakness in her mask, its her eyes. They’re too expressive to hold everything back. Its one of the only ways Anya is able to read her these days.  _‘It is… good to see you, alive, Anya’._

 

Anya recognises this for what it is, and allows her posture to relax. She almost smiles.  _‘It has been a long time, Lexa’._

 

Lexa shivers, and Anya wonders when the young woman last heard her name. ‘ _I heard about Tris. I am sorry’._

 

Anya swallows, and tries to blink away the sudden burn behind her eyes. When the Mountain Men captured her, they removed her clothes, and in doing so, they took the braid of hair. It is probably burned to a crisp, now. It is lost to her. She wants to say that she misses Tris, desperately, and that she hasn’t had time to mourn her. But she doesn’t. _‘She was strong. She would have made a great warrior’._ She smirks, to hide the pain of the memory. ‘ _I am a good teacher’._

 

Lexa smiles slightly, her mask falling, and Anya sees a light behind her eyes.  _‘If I recall, you were constantly complaining about how stubborn I was’._

 

Anya feels her lips quirk. ‘ _You were very stubborn for such a small child’._ She lets her smile widen. ‘ _But that served you well. You weren’t one to give up, no matter how many times I pushed into the mud’._

 

They lapse into a comfortable silence, and Anya realises that she has missed this. She has missed the younger woman, and who she was before being chosen, the glimpses she still sees through the iron mask the Commander is required to wear, a mask that was once impenetrable. She wonders if its the shock at seeing her alive that has made it weaker, because the last time she saw Lexa, Anya could read nothing from her face. Anya is proud of the woman Lexa has become, though she doesn’t think she’s ever said that, but sometimes she thinks of the softness in her Second’s eyes, and it’s a pride tinged with sadness. 

 

She remembers what Indra once told her, about Seconds, and about how, no matter how hard one tried, it was impossible to remain entirely detached. _Your Second will become a weakness_ , she’d said, as they’d watched the tiny girl who was to be Anya’s second sleep before the fire. _You will spend every moment of every day with your Second, teaching them everything you know, and knowing that you must keep them alive for long enough for them to learn. Weakness is inevitable. You can either fight that weakness, or embrace it, see it for what it is, and learn to live with it._

 

Sitting there, staring at Indra’s impassive profile, Anya had realised that the moment was perhaps the closest Indra had ever come to admitting that she cared for her. And Anya, a teenager at the time, having left Indra’s tuition only a year before, having already proved herself in war, having gained the respect of Indra’s clan, the youngest Second in a long time to be deemed ready, and the youngest warrior in their clan, had felt like her former mentor had just embraced her. 

 

She’d watched Indra rise and disappear into the night, before turning to watch Lexa sleep, and wondering if she’d ever been that small. Lexa was shivering, even with the warmth of the fire, and Anya had remembered how isolated she’d felt on her first night, how alone and small, watching Indra mill around with her warriors. Indra had been harsh from the first moment. And Anya had risen from her seat and draped her coat over Lexa’s form, and sat by the fire, staring up at the stars, and wondered if she was ready. 

 

With Lexa, she’d chosen to embrace the weakness, and managed to dismiss the prickle of apprehension when her affection for the girl grew and grew, no matter how hard she’d tried to fight it. She’d said nothing when Lexa met Costia, and only smiled when she found them kissing under the luminescent butterflies. She didn't tell Lexa what she’d learnt the hard way, that love could destroy you. And then, Lexa’s spirit was recognised as the Commander’s, and she was put through more trials than any one of her age had ever endured, and Anya had felt the consequences of that weakness. And then Costia was captured and Anya realised the folly of not telling Lexa, realised the folly of allowing herself to grow fond of the gentle healer in training. When Costia’s head was delivered to Lexa, Anya had felt her grief as if it was her own, and had known then, that she’d failed. Anya had wanted to go to war, to destroy the Ice Nation for what they’d done, for what they’d put Lexa through, for the way Lexa broke apart that night. But Lexa was the Commander, and she’d known that they couldn’t, that war would destroy them all, and Anya watched the girl she loved disappear beneath layers and layers of steal and iron, of suffering and guilt and anger, because blood had not had blood, because it couldn’t. And Anya had understood what Lexa was going through, from experience, and perhaps in the end, it was that that made it worse in the morning. 

 

After that, after the pain, when Tris came to her, Anya had chosen to fight the weakness. In the end, she’d failed at that as well. 

 

Lexa breaks the silence after several seconds, drawing Anya from her memories, because they do not have the luxury of time. ‘ _Go with Indra. She has something for you, before you leave’._ A small, soft smile flickers around Lexa’s mouth.  _‘Try not to get shot on the way back’._

 

Anya reaches out and grasps Lexa’s arm briefly before stepping back, allowing a slight smile of her own. ‘ _I will return soon, Heda’._

 

She watches Lexa’s mask rise again at the use of her title, and the younger woman nods. ‘ _Go swiftly’._

 

Anya bows her head, and then turns to step into the sun. 

 

Indra is waiting for her, impassive as ever. ‘ _Come with me’._

 

As Anya follows her former mentor, weaving through the tents, she feels people watching her, and hears murmurs of words she cannot quite catch. But when she turns to look, ready to snarl, to glare, all she sees is respect, and something like admiration. 

 

It puzzles her. ‘ _I was expecting more hostility on my return’._

 

Indra doesn’t look back at her. ‘ _You are the first of our people to escape the Mountain. They hope that you will help lead us to take it’._

 

Anya is stunned. She’d thought that her disgrace with the Sky people would far outweigh running from the Mountain Men. But all she says is, ‘ _you knew I’d been captured by the Mountain Men?’_

 

Indra nods, once. ‘ _We sent some of our warriors to the Sky people’s camp when none of you returned. They found signs of the Mountain Men, and signs that you had not perished in the fire’._

 

Anya remembers exiting the ship to the sight of ash and bones, and the smell of burning flesh, and grimaces slightly. They step into a tent close to the back of the camp, and Anya sees a pile of clothes in the corner.  _‘Help yourself’._

 

Anya changes quickly, and takes a moment to braid her hair. In the clothes of her own people, surrounded by the familiar smell of earth, she feels more at ease. 

 

When she steps out of the tent, she finds Indra standing there, holding a very familiar coat in her hand. She takes it quickly from the woman, her eyes widening in surprise. Indra holds out her headband as Anya slips into the coat, feeling its familiar weight settle on her shoulders. ‘ _We found these at the Sky people’s ship’._

 

Anya takes the headband from her, running her fingers over the sharp peak, down and over the beads. She keeps her expression neutral. She need not get sentimental over a peace of clothing, but it is the only sign of the command she once held, and the people she lost in the fire. ‘ _Thank you’_ , she says, shortly, and sees Indra nod sharply. 

 

The woman takes the headband from her again. ‘ _Your things have not yet been redistributed. They’ll be waiting when you return’._ She pauses, and Anya wonders if she’s going to say something else. Despite the years she spent under the woman’s tuition, she still finds her hard to read. Then Indra shakes her head. ‘ _Go_ ’, she says, ‘ _take your horse, and the Sky person, and bring back the invaders’._

 

It’s not until she’s sitting atop her horse, one hand smoothing down his soft coat, that she lets herself give in to what she’s been itching to do since she saw her coat in Indra’s hands. She reaches into the pocket stitched onto the inside, and her fingers brush over a lock of braided hair. She closes her eyes, and almost smiles. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> give me all the Indra/Anya/Lexa mentor-second interaction please. Indra being Anya's mentor is probably just my personal head canon, but you know, it'll never be confirmed or denied now. 
> 
> I'm not sure if its unrealistic to have them find her belongings, but I personally think that the Mountain Men probably would've had enough trouble transporting 48 people + a grounder to Mount Weather. Removing weapons and cumbersome clothing just makes sense to me. So yeah, in this they thought she was taken by Mount Weather. 
> 
> What did you think of Lexa?


	5. Chapter 5

When Clarke sees Anya exit the trees, its like stepping back in time to that moment on the bridge. She stares as Anya dismounts her horse and approaches, watching her long coat swish around her feet. With the braids holding her hair away from her face, and the war paint inked around her eyes, she looks like the Anya that Clarke remembers, not the one she’s come to know. 

 

But when she meets the woman’s eyes, she doesn’t see the hostility she’s almost expecting, but something more complicated, and remembers that things have changed.  

 

It is nothing compared to the look on Kane’s face when he walks out of the trees and sees her mother, nothing at all compared to the glimpse she gets of Abby’s face before she steps towards him. 

 

She shakes herself, and looks at the Grounder woman, filing away the moment for later. She can’t think about that right now, about the absolute lack of hatred she saw there, so completely at odds with what she knows of their relationship. 

 

‘I take it you talked to the Commander?’

 

Anya inclines her head, her hand running up and down the white patch of her horse’s snout. Clarke finds herself staring at the horse. This one seems unchanged by radiation, more like the one’s she read about than Lincoln’s. She’s still not used to the sight of them. Without really thinking about what she’s doing, she reaches out and presses her hand against the horse’s neck. She runs her hand through the horse’s hair, unable to hide her fascination. 

 

‘Our _Heda_ is willing to meet with you, to discuss peace. You should leave as soon as possible’. Anya’s voice brings her back to the present, and she shakes herself. The woman is watching her with a slightly raised eyebrow, lips tilted up in what might be amusement.

 

‘The Commander listened to you?’

 

‘She did’. She pauses, glancing towards their camp.

 

Clarke can see people shooting them glances, though after a moment, she decides that the wonder in their eyes is directed towards Anya’s horse. ‘Anya…’ she says, after a moment of silence that is not entirely uncomfortable, ‘do you think your Commander will agree to peace?’

 

Anya is silent for a while, tense under the shadow of the camp. Her eyes follow the guards’ movements with undisguised wariness and dislike. Then she says, ‘before your friend murdered innocents, I would have said yes. Our _Heda_ is strong and wise. Under her leadership, we’ve come as close to having peace as we ever can with our way of life, and the Mountain watching over us all. But his crime cannot be ignored’. 

 

‘Can’t you try and convince her to spare him?’ Clarke is aware that she’s pleading, a slightly desperate note to her voice, and she knows the moment the words are out of her mouth that it was the wrong thing to say. 

 

Anya’s mask hardens. ‘I would not do that’, she says shortly, her voice laced with anger. 

 

Clarke looks towards camp, searching for Finn despite knowing that she won’t find him. She takes a deep breath. ‘We have something to trade with’. 

 

Anya’s gaze does not move from following the guards, but Clarke feels her attention shift slightly. When she doesn’t speak, Clarke tells her of Lincoln, of finding him changed and unrecognisable, of his heart stopping, and of bringing him back. 

 

_That_ gets a reaction from Anya. She spins to face Clarke so suddenly that the younger woman stumbles back against her horse, half expecting an attack. Anya is suddenly very close to her, and all Clarke can see is the emotions raging in the woman’s wide eyes, shock and disbelief and something else, something dark, something suffocating. Her mask is broken open, and her expression is raw, and it is strangely painful to see. ‘Are you saying’, she says, and her voice is low and tight and trembling, ‘that there is a cure for the Reapers?’

 

Clarke nods slowly, afraid of startling her. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen the woman so caught off balance, her emotions displayed in a wild picture that speaks of some infinite suffering Clarke cannot comprehend. Anya’s jaw works, her eyes flicking rapidly between Clarke’s, searching for a lie. ‘That is… impossible. As impossible as the idea of _you_ bringing someone back from the dead’. 

 

Clarke blinks, and stares, mouth opening in shock as she registers Anya’s words. They don’t know about CPR. ‘Anya’, she says, ‘I wouldn’t lie about this, okay?’

 

Anya sucks in a breath through her teeth, eyes wild. She steps back, and Clarke has the impression that she’s trying to restrain herself, to get her emotions under control. ‘You will tell Lexa this, Clarke, out of a gesture of goodwill. And if you are lying, if this is some ploy to save your friend…’ she pauses, and it feels like a threat, like a warning, and Clarke swallows tightly. It feels weighted, the fact that Anya used the Commander’s name, not her title, a demonstration of just how shaken she is, of how out of control she’s become.

 

Anya turns away sharply, and Clarke can hear her breathing hard. Clarke stares at her back, half raising a hand, before dropping it again. After a moment, Clarke hurries over to her mother and Kane, who have been watching the interaction with identical expressions of alarm. 

 

She grabs Abby’s shoulder in a grip that might be a little too tight, but she’s suddenly feeling desperate. She says lowly, ‘you need to go to Lincoln. You need to make sure he lives. If we offer that information to the Grounders, we have an even better chance of peace’. 

 

Abby stares at her, frowning deeply. ‘Clarke, what’s happening? Marcus said that they’ve agreed to see you, but only you’. Her voice is hard, and Clarke can see the irritation in her eyes, and knows that her mother finds it difficult to accept that they’ve asked for someone she still considers a child. 

 

Kane touches her mother’s shoulder, and Clarke is so distracted by the supportive gesture that she misses what he says. Abby’s expression tightens, her thoughts whirling, and Clarke knows they don’t have time for this. 

 

Clarke bites her lip impatiently. ‘ _Please_ , Mom’. 

 

That does it, and Clarke thinks it might truly be the first time she’s asked her mother for anything since they reunited. Abby nods, and grips Clarke’s hand, their fingers intertwining briefly. ‘Be careful, Clarke’. 

 

Clarke nods, despite knowing that she has no way of guaranteeing that things will be okay. 

 

Anya is waiting for her, sitting atop her horse and staring out towards the horizon. ‘Get up’. 

 

Clarke stares at the horse, her heart pounding in anticipation. Anya looks down at her, and Clarke sees something that might be amusement, or exasperation. The woman holds down her hand, and Clarke is struck by the significance of it. 

 

She doesn’t miss the slight hiss of pain Anya makes when she helps Clarke up onto the horse behind her. Clarke links her arms around the woman’s waist hesitantly. ‘Are you okay?’

 

She feels Anya tense through their contact. The woman smells of earth and freshly fallen rain, her hair of pine needles. Any trace of Mount Weather seems to have been removed, and it feels like some sort of victory. Anya grips the reins and the horse turns, and Clarke tightens her grip, swallowing tightly. A soft sound escapes the woman, and a tremor runs through her, and Clarke realises a moment later that she was laughing silently. ‘If you fall’, says Anya, ‘you walk’. 

 

Clarke grips Anya tightly, trying not to touch her wound, and reaches one hand forward to grip the front of the saddle. ‘Then I won’t fall’. 

 

‘Good’. 

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

Clarke slips from the horse, she’s dizzy with adrenaline and exhilaration, and she barely manages to keep the foolish grin from her face. 

 

‘That was fantastic’, she says quietly, aware of how many eyes are on her, aware of the hostility in the air. 

 

Anya is handing her reigns to a young Grounder, and she snorts when she hears Clarke’s words. ‘You are like a  _goufa’._

 

‘ _Goufa?’_ repeats Clarke, sounding out the word hesitantly. She sees Anya’s lips twitch. 

 

‘Child. You are like a child’. The woman’s expression hardens, her voice becoming neutral. ‘Follow me. Do not stare at anyone’. 

 

Clarke follows Anya, keeping her eyes on the woman’s back. It is hard not to look around, because she’s suddenly really interested in the structures that make up this camp. It seems less like a camp and more like a permanent settlement. ‘What is this place?’

 

Anya’s voice is clipped, almost irritated. ‘This was my village’.

 

Clarke doesn’t recognise any of the buildings or huts, but then again, it is the first time she’s seen it during the day. She resists the urge to look around. She’s becoming aware of low mutterings following her, and though she doesn’t understand the words, the atmosphere speaks for itself. She’s not welcome here. 

 

A huge Grounder looms up into her space as they approach the door of a dilapidated building. His face is stony, marked with tattoos, or what could be ash, his eyes threatening. ‘If you so much as look at her the wrong way’, he says, voice low and steady, ‘I will slit your throat’. 

 

She swallows slightly, nodding minutely. She knows that she cannot appear weak here, because the Grounders seem to loath any sign of weakness. 

 

She’s able to disguise her surprise when she steps into the building, and sees the Commander sitting on a throne. Despite the ash inked into her face, thick around the eyes, slipping down her cheek bones and up her temples to her hairline, despite the firm set to her jaw and the hard edge to her eyes, she cannot be much older than Clarke. Clarke remembers that the woman's name is Lexa, but she cannot think of her as anything more than the title, because she suddenly seems to embody all the mystery surrounding her name. 

 

The Commander turns her head when she sees Clarke, twirling a knife in her hands. There is another woman standing by her throne, a woman with dark skin and hard, unforgiving eyes. The huge man takes up a position on the other side of her throne. Anya remains standing near Clarke, but she says nothing. Clarke keeps her expression neutral, remembering what the Grounders think about weakness. 

 

The Commander tilts her head slightly, regarding Clarke with those dark, cold eyes. ‘So you’re the one who burned three hundred of my warriors alive’. 

 

Irritation flares. Clarke refuses to be intimidated. ’You’re the one who sent them’. 

 

Anya seems to tense at Clarke’s words, but the Commander stops twirling the knife, a look of interest passing across her face. ‘So, Clarke of the Sky people, you wish for peace’. 

 

It is not a question, but Clarke nods anyway. ‘I believe that together, we can save our people’. 

 

The Commander considers her, her expression unreadable. They are all like that, she realises, every Grounder she has met has worn a mask as hard as stone, as incomprehensible to Clarke as their language. Their masks are sometimes tinged, with anger, with rage, but any emotion she sees seems to harden their masks, rather than weaken them.

 

‘Anya believes we should make peace with you. But how can you help me save my people?’ 

 

Clarke doesn’t let her alarm show. She has a strange feeling that this is some sort of test. ‘I know the Mountain’.

 

_‘We should force the information from her’,_ the dark skinned woman hisses at the Commander, her expression hostile, and Anya’s jaw tightens. Clarke glances at her, trying to decipher what the woman said from her expression. Anya doesn’t meet her eyes. 

 

The Commander says, ‘ _Indra_ ’, sharply, and the woman falls silent. The Commander tilts her head again. ‘Why should we trust you, Sky Girl?’

 

Clarke swallows. She remembers Anya’s words. ‘Your people are being turned into Reapers'. The Commander’s jaw tightens, and Clarke knows she’s hit a nerve. ‘I can turn them back’. 

 

‘Impossible’, hisses Indra, follows by a string of words laden with anger, _‘Commander, I beg you, let me kill her’._

 

The Commander says, ‘ _quiet, Indra’_ , short and sharp, and turns back to Clarke, her eyes hard. Clarke knows the risk she’s taking, knew it the moment she told Anya. If her mother cannot save Lincoln, this peace will never happen, because the Commander will think she lied. ‘Explain’. 

 

She tells them quickly, about Lincoln, and before she’s even finished, Indra is across the room, snarling at her, ‘that traitor’, she hisses, ‘you lie’, and Clarke is about to back away before her eyesight is blocked by Anya, who holds up a hand to restrain the furious woman. 

 

Anya does nothing more than stand there, and a moment later the Commander is on her feet,  _‘enough, Indra!'_  Clarke wishes she could understand what was being said. She feels cast adrift, like she could be caught off guard at any moment. 

 

The Commander walks down the steps from her throne, addressing Anya, ‘ _do you believe this, Anya? Do you think we can trust her promises?’_

 

Clarke cannot see past the taller woman, but when Anya responds, its in English. ‘I do, _Heda_ ’. 

 

There is a moment of silence. Then Anya steps to the side, and the Commander is suddenly a lot closer than Clarke was expecting. She holds her ground. The Commander’s eyes are hard and cold. ‘If you can cure Reapers, then prove it. Show me Lincoln’. 

 

Clarke bows her head, and preys to a god she does not believe in, that her mother was able to save Lincoln. 

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

Stepping off the ladder to the sight of Octavia sobbing over Lincoln is without a doubt one of the most horrifying moments Clarke has experienced since her time on the ground. 

 

She stares at her mother in horrified disbelief, listening to the Grounders climb the ladder _._

 

When she turns to face them, the first face she sees is Anya’s, and the emotion that flashes behind her eyes is raw and stinging. She looks at Clarke, and Clarke sees something that looks like accusation, like betrayal. The woman stands over Lincoln and looks down at him, and Clarke sees something similar to the look on Anya’s face when she looked down at her people in a container, left for the Reapers. She remembers suddenly that Lincoln went to Anya when Finn asked for peace. 

 

She doesn’t have time to wonder on it though, because then the Commander is there, and Indra, and there is unrestrained fury in their eyes. 

 

The Commander fixes her with a look that is chilling. ‘You lied. You came to us with an offer of peace and tried to deceive us’. 

 

‘No…’ she says, and she swallows hard. She doesn’t think she’ll get support from Anya this time. ‘No, I didn’t’. 

 

Indra lets out a low hiss. Clarke holds up her hands. She almost doesn’t dare to breathe. 

 

And then her mother lunges for something on the floor of the ship, and there is a hiss as the four Grounders draw their swords. Abby ignores them, and slams the point of the crackling rod against Lincoln’s chest. 

 

Clarke immediately understands, and says urgently, ‘again, hit him again’. 

 

Abby’s arms strain as she slams the rod against the man’s chest again, and then Lincoln _breathes_ , a desperate, ragged sound, and Clarke feels almost numb with relief. 

 

For the first time since she’s known the Grounders, she sees their masks fall. Open shock is written all over their faces. Even the Commander’s completely smooth mask is broken open. 

 

Then the Commander looks at her, shock and a hint of what might be awe disappearing behind that stoic mask. Clarke remembers, out of no where, a distant thought, that the Commander’s name is Lexa. The young woman clenches her jaw, and nods, once. 

 

And Clarke breathes again. 

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

There is silence on the way back to Camp Jaha. Clarke listens to her mother discussing the workings of CPR to Nyko as they walk through the forest, but in fading light and the beginnings of the sounds that come with the fall of darkness, Clarke cannot hear whether the Commander is talking to Indra or Gustus, who keep pace on either side of her. 

 

Anya walks slightly apart from them, a step in front of Clarke. All Clarke can see is the sharp set of her profile. She hasn’t said a word since Lincoln came back to them. She’s radiating some sort of complex emotion that Clarke wishes she could read.

 

Its a mercy that Nyko was so distracted by Lincoln coming back from the dead, and by asking Abby about it, that he didn’t immediately tell the Commander who Finn was. Anya too, seemed so caught off balance that she didn’t notice Bellamy grab Finn by the arm and practically throw him down the ladder. She just has to hope they got back to camp without being caught. 

 

She’s so relieved by the way things are going that she doesn’t question why the Commander is leading them back to their camp, and not Anya’s village, until they step out of the trees. 

 

She stops so suddenly that her mother nearly slams into her back. ‘What is this?’

 

Extending from the trees all the way to the slope of the hill are dozens and dozens of Grounder tents. Lights flicker and seem to hover in the thick, swirling fog, and she can see shapes moving about in the cover of darkness. 

 

The Commander ignores her, calling out into the darkness. The fog swirls and billows and gives up a tall, lithe Grounder with a tattoo curling up her neck and across her jaw. There is a short exchange, and then the Grounder disappears back into the fog. The Commander turns to face Clarke, and Clarke feels unease uncoil in her stomach. 

 

‘We will have peace, Clarke of the Sky people’, she pauses slightly, and her words do not help the sickening feeling in Clarke’s stomach, ‘when you give us the murderer’. 

 

‘What?’ says Abby, her hand on Clarke’s shoulder. Indra is staring at it with narrowed eyes, her lips slightly curled in what might be disdain. Abby doesn’t seem to realise. ‘I thought we agreed to peace. We’ve given you information to help your people’. 

 

‘That does not make his crimes void’, snaps Indra. ‘He murdered eighteen innocent people’. 

 

‘You will give us the  _ripa_ and then we will have peace’. The Commander pauses. ‘If you do not, we will march on your camp’.

 

‘What about the Mountain Men? Isn’t defeating the Mountain more important than revenge?’

 

Clarke knows the moment her mother says that, that she’s gone too far. The Commander’s eyes flare in the darkness, Indra makes a low hissing sound, and Gustus’ hand moves to his sword. Anya reacts for the first time since the drop ship, turning sharply to face the woman with a snarl twisting her lips. 

 

No one speaks for a moment. Then Anya addresses Octavia and Nyko, standing with Lincoln chained to a stretcher between them. ‘Take Lincoln into their camp. Make sure he is treated well’. She turns to address Abby, her voice hard. ‘This is not revenge. This is justice. Do not make the mistake of believing our _Heda_ does not know the difference’.

 

‘ _Onya’,_ says the Commander, and Clarke wishes desperately that she could understand what is said next. ‘ _Go with them. Do whatever it takes to get that ripa to us’._ Anya bows her head, and Clarke feels unease twist in her gut. 

 

Then the Commander turns to Clarke again, and Clarke stares into her dark eyes and wishes she could plea with this woman, wishes she could beg. But she can’t. It will do nothing. ‘You have until morning, Clarke of the Sky people’. She pauses. ‘If our positions were reversed, would you not want justice for your people?’ 

 

She’s gone in a swish of heavy garments, disappearing into the fog before Clarke can say a word. She’s left standing there with the fog swirling around her, Anya by her side, her mother behind her, hating that she knows the answer to the Commander's question. 

 

Anya takes Clarke’s arm. ‘Come, Clarke’.

 

They walk towards the camp, silently, her mind racing. She cannot give up Finn. They’ll kill him, and she can’t loose him. But war, war they cannot handle. They’ll be overrun in hours. She’s been in this position before, and they thought they could win. She remembers Bellamy’s impassioned speeches, believing that their guns and Raven’s grandees would do the job. They survived because they got lucky. Now they’re facing hundreds of Grounders led by a Commander infinitely smarter than Tristan. 

 

She doesn’t know what to do. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please excuse my absence, i just became a big sister!!!!
> 
> anyway, this one might feel like a bit of a filler, but its important, and the next one will have more going on, and will be up soon. hope you enjoyed!


	6. Chapter 6

This time, Anya does not get shot on the way in. 

 

She enters the camp a step behind Clarke, the fog billowing around them. The Arkers give her a wide berth, and even when the people are surrounding them, there is a small circle of space around the woman. She glares at anyone who enters it, a hand tight on her sword. 

 

Her steady presence amidst the shuffling, angry Arkers is strangely grounding. 

 

Clarke’s voice is just as steady as she tells them the Commander’s conditions. She sees Bellamy’s eyes dart to Anya, his hands tightening on his gun, but he makes no move to step past Clarke towards the woman. ‘Their demands are insane’. 

 

Anya’s expression remains impassive, but her voice is hard when she responds, carrying over the other voices, ‘we demand justice. Is it normal among your people to let their murderers go unpunished?’ 

 

Clarke doesn’t want to look at her. Bellamy’s eyes harden, looking to Clarke for support. ‘And how many people have you killed, Grounder Princess?’ 

 

Clarke  _feels_ Anya’s anger, despite how evenly she speaks. ‘That was war, boy. If your people cannot tell the difference between a massacre of innocents and those killed in battle, you have no hope’.

 

Bellamy’s jaw clenches, but its Finn who speaks up, his voice desperate, his eyes haunted. ‘We were at war! We were at war with you! I thought your people had them. How was I meant to know that these… Mountain Men had taken them?’ There is a plea in his voice, and he’s looking at Clarke, not Anya. ‘I did what I needed to do’. 

 

Anya’s laughter is just as chilling as it is surprising, short, bitter, and unamused. The look she gives Finn is something between disdain and disgust, and Clarke knows that the woman sees weakness. ‘Do you really think that ignorance justifies the murders of eighteen people,  _ripa_?’ The fire in her eyes roars. ‘You herded my people into a pen like animals. You questioned them, and you found out nothing. There was no where in that village for them to hide your people’. Anya’s last words are like a whip crack through the darkness, and Finn flinches. Clarke thinks it would be easier if she just shouted. ‘You were blind, _ripa_. You saw what you wanted to see. You are a _ripa_ , a murderer, and now you are a coward too’. 

 

There is silence, stunned and tense. It occurs to Clarke that the Arkers have probably never heard a Grounder speak so much. 

 

Raven emerges out of the dark, pushing her way through the throng of people. The look she gives Anya is one of anger, but not hatred. ‘You are not taking him, Anya’. 

 

Clarke cannot see Anya’s expression, but her attention is diverted when Abby and Kane push their way through the crowd, followed by several guards. For a horrible moment, Clarke thinks that they’re there for Finn, but her mother nods at Byrne and the guards start to expand the small circle of space, pushing the Arkers back. Clarke becomes aware suddenly of how tense the atmosphere is, of the angry buzz of voices, the sharp expressions in the dark. 

 

‘Float him!’ Someone shouts, and the cry is taken up by a dozen others. 

 

‘We shouldn’t have to die for him!’

 

‘The Grounder bitch is right!’

 

Clarke looks around wildly, realising that despite the guards, they are surrounded by a mob that is becoming increasingly frenzied. She turns to Anya, and sees that the woman’s eyes are wild, two spots of fire in the darkness, and she’s tensed, her fingers knuckle white on her sword. Somehow, despite the open air, Anya looks like she’s trapped in a cage, and maybe thats what she’s worried about. 

 

Raven grabs onto Finn’s arm, and Bellamy raises his gun. Kane has his hand on Abby’s shoulder, his gun out, attempting to shield her from a mob that surrounds them on all sides. Abby shouts, ‘Byrne, clear a path for us!’ She turns to them, expression urgent, ‘lets move’. 

 

Kane goes first, Abby behind him, Finn and Raven and Anya, Clarke hurrying along behind the Grounder woman, afraid of leaving her back exposed. Bellamy brings up the rear, and the guards close in behind them. 

 

There is a shout, and one of the guards stumbles and falls, and then the line breaks, and there are hands scrabbling at Finn, at Raven, and Raven slams her fist into the man’s face. There is a crunch, and the man roars, grabbing for the girl, and there is a blur of movement, a hiss, a snap, and the man’s scream is followed by a stunned silence. 

 

Anya stands in front of Raven, the man sprawled at her feet, hanging from her grasp by his wrist, and above her fingers his hand is bent at an unnatural, almost sickening angle. Raven grabs Anya’s shoulder and pulls, but Clarke cannot hear what she says. Anya drops the man and he crumbles at her feet, screaming. 

 

The night explodes in shouts and screams of outrage, the mass of bodies surging forward, hands reaching for them, and the faces of Clarke’s people are twisted in anger and hatred and fear. 

 

‘Go!’ shouts Clarke, pushing at Anya’s shoulders, feeling Bellamy right behind her, the guards struggling against the mass of bodies trying to get to them. She hears the snap and crackle of the guards batons, and then they’re moving. She sees Kane running with Abby holding onto his jacket in a way that is almost comical, Finn running behind them, Anya practically dragging Raven, and Clarke sees the gleam of the woman’s long sword under the looming shadow of the Ark. 

 

They burst into Medical, transformed from a ragged tent into something more sturdy, something more permanent. Kane shouts instructions to Byrne, who nods, and then shuts the door, and leans against it. They’re all breathing hard, from adrenaline, from fear, and in some cases, from anger. 

 

‘What’s going on?’

 

Clarke jumps and turns. Lincoln is strapped to a table at the back of the room, Octavia sitting beside him, and his eyes are bright with recognition. 

 

Abby turns to hiss at Anya, her shoulders tight with anger, ‘what the hell was that? Were you trying to provoke a riot?’

 

Anya glares at the woman, ‘your people chose to become hysterical. I did not force them’. She’s leaning against the wall, her sword still clutched in her hand, and Clarke notices that she’s slightly pale. She’s breathing deeply, evenly, and after a moment, Clarke realises that the woman is in pain, and is trying not to show it. 

 

She’s not the only one who realises. Raven pushes off the cot, her breathing harsh, but she crosses until she’s standing in front of Anya, her eyes narrowed slightly. ‘You shouldn’t have done that’. She pauses, and Clarke wonders if she’s talking about what the other woman said about Finn, or about breaking the man’s hand. 'You’re hurt’, she adds, frowning down at the woman’s side. ‘You pulled your stitches, didn’t you?'

 

Anya’s expression is unreadable, her jaw tight, eyes flickering between Raven and Clarke as the blonde hurries over. ‘I don’t know’, she says tersely. 

 

‘Let me check’. Clarke’s voice is firm, but Anya’s eyes harden, and she stands up straighter, sheathing her sword, and folding her arms over her chest. She shakes her head. Clarke stares at her, momentarily stunned by the woman’s blank refusal, before she sees the way Anya’s eyes are roving about the room. She remembers that Anya might trust her, but that trust came after a long, painful period that saw them as rivals on opposite sides of a war. Anya respects her, trusts her, but she doesn’t trust anyone else. And without that trust, she’s not going to let them see an injury that presents a weakness, never mind that they all already know about it. 

 

If she wants to check, she’ll have to clear the room. She glances around, momentarily distracted when she hears Abby say to Lincoln ‘is there any way of changing the Commander’s mind?’

 

Lincoln looks awful still. Octavia is in the process of washing the blood and dirt from his skin, but his hands are chained to the bed. He looks alert, and his features are no longer transformed with rage, but his eyes are haunted. He looks exhausted, and the guilt swirling around in his eyes is almost painful to look at. The man shrugs, his voice low and hoarse when he says, ‘you cannot change her mind. Lexa is…the Commander wants justice for her people. Her people want justice. If you want peace, you must be give him up’. 

 

‘He deserves to die’, Anya’s words are a hiss, and for the first time, Clarke wonders if Anya knew anyone in that village. 

 

Raven tenses at the words, stepping between Finn and Anya’s line of sight. ‘If you’re here to take him, you’ll have to go through me’. Her words are quiet, threatening, but there is no hatred there, none of the raw anger the Arkers threw at her in the darkness. 

 

Bellamy’s voice is dry. ‘Thats not an idle threat, Grounder Princess’. 

 

There is a tense silence. Clarke glances down at Anya’s torso, but she can’t see anything beneath her jacket. If she’s bleeding again, at least its minor, for now. The sense of urgency running through her is rising, because they need to get Finn out of here, because they can’t jeopardise everyone on the Ark, they need to get him to safety, and she needs to check Anya’s stitches, and she can’t have Anya around when they get Finn out, and she doesn’t know how to keep her away. She won’t resort to locking her up, or restraining her, or using her injury against her. There has been enough of that, and Clarke won’t betray Anya’s trust. 

 

Octavia breaks the silence. ‘What would happen to Finn, if we gave him up?’

 

Anya meets Lincoln’s eyes. The man says quietly. ‘He killed eighteen people, so he will suffer eighteen deaths’. 

 

‘Thats barbaric’. Abby’s voice echoes the horror bubbling up in Clarke’s throat, a horror reflected on all her friend's faces. 

 

Anya snarls at the word, but it is Lincoln who speaks, shaking his head, his expression gently admonishing. ‘That is our way’. 

 

The tension within Clarke becomes too much, and she whirls towards Lincoln, her words sharp and furious, ‘how can you say that we have to give him up? He’s your friend’. 

 

Lincoln’s eyes are tired. ‘Some of the people he killed were my friends too, Clarke’. 

 

And just like that, the anger drains from her. 

 

She steps back and leans against the cot, pressing her palms into her eyes. ‘Princess’, says Bellamy, and she looks up at him. He looks worried, and she’s seen that look before. He’s looking to her for advice, for council, and she doesn't have any to give. ‘What do we do?’

 

Anya pushes off the wall, and Bellamy tenses. The woman addresses Clarke, but her eyes are fixed on Finn. ‘I want to speak to the _ripa_. Alone’. 

 

Clarke blinks, her alarm echoed in everyone’s expressions. Raven says sharply, ‘no way. How do we know that you won’t kill him?’

 

Anya looks incredibly irritated. ‘Were any of you actually listening to what I said out there? My people want justice. I won’t take that from them by making his end a swift one’. 

 

Raven flinches, visibly pained by the thought, but she stands her ground, standing incredibly close to the Grounder woman, radiating a fierce anger and determination that seems to weigh down the whole room. ‘I don’t trust you’. 

 

Clarke glances between the two women, and then over at Finn. There is the beginnings of a plan forming in her mind. ‘Anya’, she says, breaking the strange tension, and the woman looks at her with guarded eyes. ‘Will you give us your word that you will not harm Finn, if we leave you alone with him?’

 

Anya’s eyes narrow. She searches Clarke’s face for a moment, searching for deceit, and then she nods her head, and for a moment, Clarke thinks she sees something like amusement flickering around the woman’s mouth. ‘I swear not to harm this _ripa’._

 

Raven turns to Clarke, wide eyes. ‘You can’t seriously trust that, can you?’

 

Clarke nods. ‘I do, Raven’. She widens her eyes slightly, pleadingly, trying to express to her friend without words that this will be okay, that this is a good thing. 

 

Raven frowns slightly, before glancing back at Anya. Her jaw works. ‘Well I don’t’. 

 

Anya stares at the younger woman with an unreadable expression. And then she does something so unexpected that Clarke is left a little startled. She unbuckles the short sword from her hip, removes the one slung over her back, and hands them out to Raven. They girl takes them, her clear surprise momentarily sweeping the anger from her expression. Anya says nothing, but folds her arms and fixes Finn with a stony glare, and waits. 

 

Clarke understands what has just happened. Anya is by no means defenceless without her weapons. She could kill Finn with anything in the room, and if she wasn’t injured, she could probably do it with her bare hands. But she couldn’t fight her way out of the camp afterwards with just her hands and scraps of material. This is a sign of trust, the seal on vow that Clarke knows Anya will not break. 

 

Clarke meets Raven’s eyes, and nods. Her friend’s jaw tightens, but she looks down at the swords in her hands, and seems to come to a similar conclusion. She glares at Anya. ‘You touch him, and I’ll break _your_ hand’. 

 

Anya’s mouth twitches, and she nods. Raven exits with Bellamy following her, casting a wary glance over his shoulder at Clarke. She nods at him slightly, hoping he’ll understand what she can’t say, and she can’t tell if he’s understood. Abby and Kane pass her, and she’s incredibly grateful that her mother doesn’t pause to ask her about what she’s doing. She has a feeling its to do with Kane.

 

Lincoln squeezes Octavia’s hand, and says something to her lowly in the Grounder’s language. Octavia opens her mouth to protest, but seems to cave when Lincoln speaks again. She bends to kiss the man, and then stands. She leaves the room with a brief touch to Clarke’s arm, Anya’s eyes following her until she’s exited. Clarke thinks she sees curiosity in the Grounder woman’s dark eyes, but perhaps she’s mistaken. 

 

Clarke turns to Finn. He looks anxious, his eyes darting between her and Anya with an expression of incredible unease. ‘Clarke - ’ 

 

‘Just trust me, okay Finn?’ She thinks of how once, Finn was the one defending the Grounders, the one doing whatever he could to try and make peace between them. That Finn, the one she almost loved, he wouldn’t have marched into a village with guns blazing. She looks at him, and feels that pull she used to, and sees a boy she doesn’t know. 

 

He stares at her for a moment, before swallowing hard. He nods. Clarke turns back to Anya, and says firmly, ‘when you’re done, I’m checking those stitches’. When Anya says nothing, Clarke leaves with a single glance over her shoulder, taking in the tension, and then hurries away to find Raven and Bellamy, and to make plans. 

 

There is a long silence after Clarke’s departure. Finn stands on the other side of the room, a cot between them, but he does not feel reassured by the distance. He looks anywhere but at Anya, but he can feel her eyes boring into him. 

 

Anya watches the boy who murdered her people in cold blood. She watches him shift, his eyes darting about. She works on keeping her anger under control, and her voice is calm and almost detached when she says, ‘who do you blame for this, _ripa_?’ 

 

His eyes snap to her, before darting away again, and she watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard. ‘What do you mean?’

 

‘Who do you believe is to blame for this current situation? Do you think it is my people’s fault, your people’s fault, or your own?’

 

He looks a little taken aback by her question. He takes a deep breath. ‘I… I thought I was doing what needed to be done. I thought I was saving my friends’. He swallows tightly again. ‘I didn’t know what i was doing. Every Grounder I saw looked like a threat’. He stops, and shakes his head. ‘I look back at what happened, and its like watching something that someone else did’. 

 

‘But you did do it’. Anya’s voice holds no pity, no sympathy, just something that might be disgust. 

 

Finn’s hands clench. ‘I know. And in answer to your question, the only person to blame for all this is me. I know that. It doesn’t mean that I can’t wish it was someone else’. 

 

Anya tilts her head. ‘You cannot change the past, _ripa_. All that matters is what you do next’. 

 

Finn looks at her, confused and uncertain. ‘What do you mean?’

 

Anya glances at Lincoln, who has been listening to the conversation silently, trying to judge his former leader’s expressions. ‘You were at the bridge, when Clarke first came to ask for peace. You were the only who first wanted peace over wear, weren’t you?’ Her voice remains hard, her eyes unforgiving, and Lincoln cannot tell where this is going. 

 

Neither can Finn. His expression seems to become more alarmed at Anya’s words. He nods. Anya searches his face for a moment. ‘You were willing to do what needed to be done for your people then, _ripa._ Are you ready to do the same now?’

 

‘What are you talking about?’

 

‘Your people will be slaughtered if they continue to protect you. Clarke will die, Raven will die’, she watched his face as she speaks, watching the pain her words inflict, ‘and your people will perish in Mount Weather. Do you want to be the one to doom them all?’

 

Finn looks vaguely sick. ‘What do you want me to do?’ But she can see form the trapped look in his eyes, that he knows the answer. 

 

‘Give yourself up. Walk out of this camp and do not let anyone stop you, and give yourself over to our Commander’.

 

Finn closes his eyes. Lincoln watches the two of them. The Finn he knew, the boy who came to him to ask for peace, who hated guns, would have thought of this solution long before Anya voiced it. 

 

Finn takes a deep breath. ‘And you think thats the best solution?’

 

‘That is the only solution. You cannot run. I know that Clarke is out there right now trying to find some way to save you. If you run, my people will find you. You have no where to go. No friends. If you stay here, you’ll kill every single person in this camp. Men, women and children. The only solution is for you to give yourself up’.

 

Finn’s jaw works, and he clenches his hands so tightly that his arms shake. Anya pauses, watching him, wondering whether she needs to push a little more. After a moment, she says, ‘you said that you did what you did to save Clarke. If you don’t give yourself up, you’ll be killing her’. 

 

Finn seems to sag, to cave in on himself. His shoulders slump, and his face crumples. He takes a shuddering breath, and nods. He turns on his heel, and leaves the room without a second glance. 

 

Anya is not sorry to see him go. When the door swings shut, she allows herself to sag, leaning back against the wall and grimacing slightly. She shrugs off her coat and lifts her shirt, inspecting her stitches warily. One of them has torn, and there is a steady, thin line of blood trickling down her stomach. 

 

‘You should let me look at that’. 

 

Anya doesn’t look up at Lincoln, dabbing gingerly at her wound, her wince hidden behind her hair. ‘I thought you believed you needed to be restrained’. 

 

‘I do. But if you’re not going to let Clarke fix you…’ he trails off, and Anya is reminded, suddenly, abruptly, of the boy he used to be, training to be a healer while she trained by Indra’s side. She remembers fidgeting while he ordered her to be still, setting broken bones and dislocated joints, patching her up with gentle hands. He was perhaps the only gentle person in her life as a Second, and he’s always been like that, even as the world tried to harden him. Even now, after his ordeal, he looks at her with concern and apprehension. 

 

She hated him, before Mount Weather made her forget everything but her all consuming anger towards the Mountain Men and what they’d done to her people. She’d believed that if he hadn’t betrayed them, if he hadn’t fallen in love with a Sky girl, there was a possibility that Tris could be alive. But Clarke, Clarke who knows how to bring people back from the dead, couldn’t save Tris, and now she believes that Lincoln would’ve had no chance.

 

She clenches her jaw, fighting against the sudden rush of memories. ‘Fine’. 

 

She unchains his hands, and he rolls into a sitting position slowly, his face hard, and Anya knows he’s in pain. He instructs her to retrieve some materials, and then to stand still. His hands are steady, despite the red rim to his eyes. 

 

She watches him work, gritting her teeth as he plucks gently at the torn stitch. To distract herself she says, a little bitterly, ‘so, are you really cured? Or should I start counting down the seconds until I regret this decision?’

 

She sees his shoulders tense, and hears him swallow. ‘I’m not a danger to you, _Onya._ You’re one of the few who I’m not worried about’. 

 

She snorts, choosing to ignore is last comment. ‘I know. Even your Sky girl could take you down in this condition’. 

 

He smiles, and she’s almost startled by the brightness of it. ‘She’s not as weak as you think’. 

 

She remembers the sword Octavia wears, and frowns slightly. ‘Does she think she’s one of us?’

 

Lincoln shrugs. ‘She’s spent more of her life locked up than she has walking free. She wants to learn how to stop that from happening again’. 

 

Anya remembers bars and cold metal and a feeling of utter helplessness, and represses a shudder. After a moment, she says dryly, ‘these Sky people are full of surprises’. 

 

Lincoln pauses, holding the needle between his thumb and forefinger, pressing a cloth to the bleeding edge of her wound. ‘They can bring people back from the dead. I don’t think anything will be more surprising than that’. 

 

She stiffens. This is dangerous territory. She swallows tightly, restraining herself from pulling away as he threads the needle through her skin. The pain of the blunt instrument is nothing compared to the memories his words dredge up from the deep. ‘We… we could not have known that there was a cure for the Reapers. We’d tried everything’. 

 

Lincoln stops again, having looped the stitch over, about to tie it off. He looks up at her, and she hates how compassionate his expression is. He understands what she’s not saying. ‘I’m not the one who needs to know that, _Onya_ ’. 

 

She remembers sitting curled between the boughs of a tree, wrapped in an embrace of leaves and darkness, staring up at the stars. She remembers the taste of salt, and how hard she bit the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from making a sound. She remembers Lincoln finding her, remembers being anything but surprised when he did. He’d sat there with her and said nothing, because there was nothing to be said, and they’d grown up together and he was the closest thing she’d ever had to a friend, and he would not lie to her by trying to make things better. But he’d sat there with her, and he hadn’t told her that she should’ve known better, should’ve known how dangerous it was to love and be loved, which was what Indra had said, more gently than she’d ever said anything before, and in the end, it was his silent companionship that Anya needed. 

 

She stares at him and tries to find something dismissive to say, but she cannot. He sighs. ‘What you did was a mercy _’._

 

She blinks, feeling him run a damp rag over her wound gently. ‘I know that, _Linkon_ ’. 

 

He searches her face, and she says nothing. She knows that her people believe that he is a traitor. She did too, but the betrayal felt more personal than the fact that he’d left their people for a Sky girl. She’d allowed herself to hate him, because it was easier than the sting of loss that became overshadowed by Tris’ death. She forgot about that when Clarke told her that he’d become a Reaper. And when he breathed again, when she saw that his eyes were clear, not fogged with rage and madness, any residue anger was swept away by a wave of relief that cascaded over her without any warning. 

 

For a moment, she’d flashed back to a time before she’d begun training, when she’d still been considered a child in the eyes of her people, staring down at Lincoln from where they’d both been siting on a low tree bough, holding her breath, waiting for him to move from his spread eagled position, and thinking that the fall had killed him. He’d jumped up and she’d breathed again, and everything was fine. 

 

Nothing is fine, now, as she turns her back to him so that he can check the stitches in her back. They’d drifted apart when their training was complete, when their responsibilities sent them in different directions. They’d drifted apart because they’d had to, because Anya became a mentor, a leader, a General, while he remained a healer. She still trusted his loyalty, his council, trusted him enough to send him scouting when the first people fell from the sky, enough to listen to his talk of peace. It made his betrayal all the worse, because it was a reminder of a weakness she hadn’t quite been able to sever. 

 

Lincoln finishes patching her up, and she lets her shirt drop. He climbs back onto the bed, and she secures his chains again without waiting for him to ask. After a moment he says, almost curiously, ‘how exactly did you pull your stitches?’

 

She pulls her coat back around her shoulders, frowning slightly. ‘There was a riot. Their people wanted to throw the _ripa_ out. One of them attacked Raven. I stopped him, but he hit me in the stomach’. She smiles, a quick, feral grin. ‘I broke his hand for it’. 

 

Lincoln stares at her. He wants to ask why she protected a Sky girl she doesn’t know, and about the strange way she says the mechanic’s name. But he doesn’t get the chance. 

 

Clarke bursts into Medical, her eyes frantic, hair flying, and she looks so panicked that for a moment, Lincoln imagines that he’ll see the Mountain Men racing in after her, that there will be blood on her when he looks properly. But instead, there’s nothing, and Clarke looks around wildly before saying, ‘Anya, where is Finn?’

 

Anya crosses her arms tightly. ‘Why?’

 

Clarke’s jaw works and her trembles when she speaks, despite how calm she’s attempting to remain, ‘someone saw him leaving here, and no one knows where he is’. 

 

Anya says nothing for a moment, and her silence seems to confirm whatever suspicions Clarke has, because her eyes widen. ‘Anya… what did you do?’

 

The door opens bursts open again, and Abby steps into the room, and she looks worried and resigned, tired and almost defeated. ‘Clarke’. 

 

Clarke turns to face her mother, and even though Anya cannot see her face, she knows that Clarke knows what has happened the moment she sees her mother's expression. ‘Clarke… a few of the guards opened the gate against orders. Finn gave himself up’. 

 

Clarke’s entire body tenses, and whatever emotion she feels must be written all over her face, because Abby steps forward as if to embrace her. Clarke pulls back, her hand flying up to indicate that she doesn’t want to be touched. Then she turns to face Anya, and Anya is almost taken aback by what she sees. 

 

Clarke’s eyes are bright and desperate, but her expression is hard, stone and smooth, polished glass. She swallows tightly, and her voice is even and strong when she says, ‘take me to your Commander, Anya. I have to speak with her’. 

 

Anya frowns. ‘You cannot change her mind, Clarke. Attempting to do so will put you at risk’.

 

‘Why do you care if I put myself at risk?’ snaps Clarke, trembling with anger and worry. She’s bordering on panic, and she hopes that Anya cannot see it. 

 

Anya blinks. There is a heavy silence. Clarke takes another deep breath. ‘Please, Anya. I just need to talk to her’. 

 

Anya stares at her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she nods her head towards the door. ‘Follow me. Do not bring any weapons’.

 

Clarke runs into Raven and Bellamy on the way out. The camp is quiet, the silence heavy, and everyone avoids looking at them. Clarke knows why. Most of them wanted to give Finn up. 

 

Raven hands Anya her swords without waiting for the woman to ask for them, and the moment sticks with Clarke for some reason, the way Raven waits while Anya straps the short sword to her hip before handing her the next. 

 

Anya steps away from them, giving them a moment, and when Raven steps forward to hug her, Clarke feels her press something sharp into her hand. Her breath is hot and hissed against her ear. ‘If she doesn’t let him go, kill her’.

 

Clarke swallows tightly. Everything is spiralling out of control, fear and worry and the horrible knowledge that there is nothing she can do. Bellamy clasps her shoulder, and she almost doesn’t feel it. 

 

Anya is silent as they walk towards the gate, and its only once she’s stepped over the threshold that Clarke understands what she’s seeing. There is a poll erected on the flat plan before the gates, and the Grounders are tying Finn to it. She can see the Commander standing in front of him, facing the camp, and Clarke can almost feel the woman’s eyes boring into her, never mind the distance. 

 

‘You told him to give himself up, didn’t you?’

 

Anya is quiet, and Clarke is surprised to find that she isn’t angry with the woman. She understands, and that is the worst thing about it. Anya sighs quietly. ‘They were words Clarke. I told him the truth. I did not force him to do anything’. 

 

Clarke is reminded of Anya’s words, and swallows tightly. ‘We’re all responsible for our actions. I know’. 

 

Anya looks at her finally, a slight frown creasing her brow. She looks like she wants to say something, but after a moment, she shakes her head. ‘Come’. 

 

Clarke walks away from the camp, following Anya towards the Grounders and their cold Commander, and knows somehow, a dark whispered voice at the back of her mind, that when she returns, she will not be the same. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more of Anya's past. This idea of her growing up with Lincoln originated from finding out that Dichen and Ricky are the same age. Plus, there is obviously some sort of connection that just will never be explained. It always confused me, how Indra and Lincoln seemed to have quite a heavy history, and yet Lincoln was part of Anya's tribe, or clan, or unit. 
> 
> Also, more Raven and Anya! What did you all think of that? Am I handling that well, and the pace of it? I'm unsure. 
> 
> Actually I'm a little unsure about this whole chapter but hopefully it was enjoyable!


	7. Chapter 7

Anya can feel Clarke’s eyes on her back as they move through the darkness towards the pool of light cast by her people’s torches. Lexa is bathed in orange fire, her eyes hidden in dark hollows accentuated by the thick ash. 

 

‘ _Anya’,_ she says, her voice carrying easily over the remaining distance, and the muttering voices go quiet.  _‘You should not have brought her here’._

 

Anya dips her head, mindful of their audience. She feels on edge, her fingers gripping the knife at her thigh tightly. ‘ _Heda. Clarke of the Sky people seeks an audience’._ There is a forced formality to the way she speaks. She cannot tell Lexa why she brought Clarke here, because here, Lexa is the Commander, and Anya is her General, and here, they are nothing more. 

 

She can see Indra blocking Clarke’s path, the dark smear of blood pooling at the tip of her spear, and she knows how easily the woman could kill Clarke, how quickly, know that the spear would slide in with a mere nod from the Commander, and Clarke would die before she hit the ground. 

 

The Commander regards her silently for a moment. Then she nods.  _‘Let her approach’._

 

Anya steps aside to let Clarke pass, staying back to give them some privacy. It does not prevent her from hearing every word that passes between them. She’s never seen Clarke as desperate as she does now, as young and vulnerable, and she wishes she could tell the girl that vulnerability is not something that she can afford, not something that her people will tolerate. 

 

Clarke can feel Anya’s eyes on her, can feel the eyes of _everyone_ on her, the Arkers and the Grounders, her friends and possible allies, and everything is a blur of choked emotion and shaking hands and nothing is clear anymore. She looks at this Commander who stares back at her with cold eyes, and remembers how hard she once found it to read Anya, and how easy it is in comparison to this woman. 

 

The Commander says, ‘you bleed for nothing. You cannot stop this’, and Clarke knows she’s imagining the slight softening of the woman’s voice, because its what she wants to hear. 

 

‘But you can’. The Grounders shift, and she hears Indra scoff. 'Please’, she says, and she knows, she  _knows,_ that pleading will get her no where. ‘Show my people how powerful you are. Show them that you can be merciful. Show them that you’re not savages’. 

 

Whatever softness Clarke might have imagined extinguishes like a snuffed flame in Lexa’s eyes. The woman stares back at her, and Clarke is reminded of the smooth sculptures of the old world, of marble and stone, a mask so immovable that she wonders if it is possible that the woman simply doesn’t feel a thing. She dares to glance at Anya, standing apart from them, beside Indra, and she thinks she sees pity. She looks back at Lexa to find that she’s followed her gaze. The Commander remains unmoving. ‘We are what we are’. 

 

And Clarke knows that she’s lost. 

 

It crashes down on her in the darkness, and she wonders if the Commander sees it.

 

Clarke takes a deep breath, and swallows hard, hearing Raven’s words ringing in her ears. The scalpel is slick and slippery against her fingers, damp with her own sweat. She stares at the curve of the Commander’s neck, bared to her in the firelight. She imagines bringing her arm up and out, slashing across her throat, like she did once before, imagining the blood bursting bright and scarlet across her skin. Her hand twitches. 

 

She looks over at Anya, and then back at the Commander, and the image is gone. If she killed the Commander, she’d be dooming her people to slaughter. If she slit the Commander’s throat, she’d be killing Anya too, because she knows the intolerance that the Grounders have for ignorance, and she suspects that Anya’s willingness to bring Clarke before the Commander would be like a confession in their eyes. 

 

She pushes away images of blood and betrayal, and says, as steadily as she can, ‘can I say goodbye?’

 

Something flickers behind the Commander’s hard eyes, just for a second, and then its gone, and Clarke is left wondering if she imagined it. The Commander nods.

 

Clarke knows what she has to do. 

 

She hugs Finn as tightly as she can, ignoring the awkward angle, and lets herself press against him for a moment, lets her resolution waver. She wants to kiss him, but she doesn’t, because she thinks that she would well and truly break if she did. She hears him breathe shakily against her ear. ‘Clarke, I - ’ 

 

‘You shouldn’t have listened to Anya, Finn’, she interrupts, because they doesn’t have time, and she wishes it was that simple, wishes that Anya had forced him out the gate with a knife at his neck, but she did not, and everything that Finn has done he has done of his own accord. 

 

He laughs softly. ‘Don’t blame the Grounder Princess, Princess’, and god, he sounds so much like the boy he used to be that she wants to sob and beat at his chest and tell him to _stop_ , because this is too much, too hard as it already is, and he’s making it worse. ‘Save our people, Princess. Do whatever it takes. Take… take care of Raven for me’.

 

Raven will hate her after this, she thinks. But she says nothing. 

 

‘I’m afraid, Clarke’.

 

She tells him it will be okay, and it is a lie, and she tells him that she loves him, and she doesn’t know if that is true, or if its a truth that belongs to the people they used to be. 

 

The scalpel slips easily between his ribs, and she _feels_ the words he whispers on his last exhale, and something twists awfully in her chest, between her ribs, as his head bows to her shoulder. 

 

Before, she wanted to rage and scream and sob. Now, she feels numb, as if some part of her died with him, and maybe it did. 

 

She can hear shouting, indistinct foreign words made all the more unrecognisable, and everything is a blur, a blur of sound and darkness and firelight. She’s vaguely aware of a hand on her arm, of being pulled into the shadow of the Commander’s tent. She hears words, but there is a ringing in her ears, and everything feels sluggish, numb, and all she can see is Finn’s tired, scared eyes. 

 

There are hands on her shoulders, pushing her down, and she hears her knees crack, a blur of movement in front of her face. There are more indistinct words. Finn stares up at her, crouching down in front of her with a hand on her knee, another on the scalpel, trying to pry it from her fingers, and the edges of his form are blurred and out of focus. 

 

‘Clarke!’ 

 

She blinks, and the image wavers, and its Anya crouching in front of her, trying to take the scalpel from her hands. The woman’s expression is tight, her eyes hard and fractured, like broken pieces of glass forced back together. She blinks again. ‘Anya?’

 

She’s in the Commander’s tent, she realises, and she can hear muffled shouting through the fabric walls. ‘Clarke’, Anya’s voice is softer than she’s used to, ‘give me the blade’.

 

Clarke wants to give it to her, but her fingers are frozen, and they don’t respond to her wishes. Anya’s fingers are gentle but firm, and Clarke watches with something boarding on fascination as the woman pries the scalpel from her hand with steady, firm patience, her fingers gradually becoming stained in Finn’s blood. 

 

Her fingers cramp when Anya straightens them, and then the woman stands and moves out of her line of sight. Clarke doesn’t turn to look at her. She stares at her bloodied hands, bile rising thickly in her throat, and tries to fight the urge to vomit. 

 

Anya crouches down in front of her again, holding some sort of canteen, and a strip of torn fabric. ‘Hold out your hands’, she says, an order, a command, and Clarke is surprisingly grateful for the woman’s calm practicality. She does as she’s told, and Anya tips the canteen, pouring water over Clarke’s hands. She places it on the ground and begins to wipe the blood from Clarke’s hands, scrubbing firmly, but not roughly, and Clarke stares down at the crown of her head. She keeps seeing Finn flicker in front of her eyes, and she swallows hard, trying to focus on anything other than what has just happened. She finds herself following the twisting lines of Anya’s braids, watching the silhouettes flickering against the tent. Nothing works. 

 

The blood was still wet when Anya began, and with the added water, it doesn’t take the woman long to clean her hands. She’s thorough about it, pushing the edge of the cloth under her fingernails, deep into the creases of her palms. Clarke wonders how many times Anya has done this, and how many times its been for someone else. She wonders if this is something mentors do for their seconds in the early days of their training, and for a moment, she sees the twisted features of a young girl with braids mirroring Anya’s, just another person she wasn’t able to save. 

 

She remembers that Lexa used to be Anya’s second, and tries to picture the fierce, cold Commander as a young girl with her first kill staining her hands. She can’t. 

 

Anya dumps the rag on the floor next to her, and looks up at Clarke with that same strange, complicated expression. Clarke wonders if she imagines the soft creases at the corners of her eyes. The woman stares at her for a long moment, and Clarke wishes she’d just leave, because she is so, so close to breaking down, and she doesn’t want Anya to see it happen. The Grounder woman tilts her head, and Clarke wonders if she imagines the hint of warmth in the woman’s eyes. ‘You have shown your strength, Clarke’. 

 

Clarke stares at her. She knows, even in her fogged, detached state, how weighted Anya’s words are, however neutrally she might have said them. 

 

Before she can say anything, there is shouting, angry voices approaching the tent, and Anya is immediately on her feet, her sword out, standing tall and strong in front of Clarke. Clarke’s eyes are drawn to the sharp edge of Anya’s blade, the gleam of it in the light. 

 

She can’t see who enters the tent, but then Anya steps aside, and Clarke sees Abby and Kane, and then her mother is there and she’s wrapped in her arms and she feels a sob bubble up in her throat, horrible and choking. 

 

‘I had to do it, Mom’, she chokes out, unable to hold the words back, because she needs them to understand, she needs someone to tell her that she’s done the right thing. 

 

Her mother makes soothing, nonsense noises against her hair, and Clarke stares over her shoulder at Kane, who stands there with this hand over his mouth, his eyes fraught with worry. 

 

It is Anya’s expression that breaks her last shreds of self control. The woman pauses at the tent entrance, and glances over her shoulder. Something behind the war paint, something behind the stone that has been slowly crumbling, cracks apart, and its unreadable and undefinable despite its presence, but for one, shuddering breath, Clarke knows that Anya _understands_ , and it is too much. 

 

Anya sweeps from the tent with Clarke’s first shuddering sob echoing in her ears. It is too much, this parallel with the girl who fell from the sky, after everything that has happened, after all the reminders of the things she has lost and tried to forget losing. 

 

She feels weak, and she’s terrified that her people are going to see that weakness. 

 

‘Let me through!’

 

Raven’s voice, raw and broken, jars Anya from her thoughts. She looks up to see Indra resolutely blocking the girl’s path, her spear sharp and gleaming in the light. The boy, Bellamy, is with her, and any weapons they must have had have been discarded. Raven looks wild and fierce despite the tears gleaming on her cheeks, like her grief has strengthened rather than weakened her, an Avenging Angel. Bellamy looks on edge, eyes darting about, eying the Grounders’ weapons uneasily, searching for Clarke. 

 

Lexa is standing off to the side, deep in conversation with two of her Generals, her expression tight with barely suppressed fury. Gustus’ hand is on his sword, alert for any sign of attack on his Commander, and the _ripa_ is still tied to the pole. 

 

‘Indra’, she says, and though her former mentor’s eyes do not stray from the two sky people, she feels the older woman’s attention shift. ‘Let them through’. 

 

Indra hisses,  _‘you are a fool if you trust these people, Anya’._

 

Lexa looks over, holding up a hand to silence the discussion, her eyes hard. _‘Let them pass, Indra. We might not trust them, but we are going to ally with them’._

 

Indra growls, clearly unhappy with the decision, but she doesn’t hesitate to lower her weapon. Lexa meets Anya’s eyes, and tilts her head towards Raven and Bellamy. Her meaning is clear. 

 

Anya follows them as they hurry over to thebody. They have no knives to cut him down, and Raven pulls fruitlessly at the cords binding him to the pole for several moments, her movements frantic and desperate, as if she’s still trying to save him. 

 

Anya watches her for a moment, as Bellamy moves to help her, before stepping up slowly beside the other woman, aware that her presence might not be appreciated. She feels Raven tense and turn to her, and Anya draws her knife without looking at the other woman. She cuts the cords and steps back immediately, reluctant for her people to see her helping these sky people any more than she already has. Bellamy catches the body of the boy who once tried to make peace, and lowers him to the ground. 

 

Raven cradles his head in her lap, stroking his face with trembling fingers. Bellamy stands again, stepping up to Anya, his face hard, his eyes bright with pain. ‘Give her some space’. 

 

Anya doesn’t move. She stares down at Raven, and wonders whether she should tell her that because of what Clarke did, there is no doubt that Lexa will demand that the boy’s body be buried at the place of his crime. She wonders whether she should tell her that she does not have much time, and that she should not mourn yet. She wants to tell this woman that her strength cannot waver. But she remembers what it was like, the first time she lost someone she loved, and how those words made it worse. So instead, she looks up Bellamy and says evenly, ‘come, Bellamy of the Sky people. We will stand guard’. 

 

Raven looks up at that, and her eyes are pools of sorrow and grief, and yet Anya has the impression that the woman is trying to contain herself, as if she knows the very words that Anya cannot tell her. Bellamy hesitates. ‘Raven?’

 

Raven stares at Anya, at this woman who has been soft with her when she could’ve been cruel, who pulled her stitches trying to protect her, who handed her swords over, and through a haze of grief and suppressed horror and anger, Raven recognises what she’s doing. She nods, and her voice is raw from screaming when she says, ‘its okay Bellamy. Go’. She pauses, staring up into the shadow of Anya’s face. She doesn’t say anything, but after a moment, she nods, and the movement carries the wait of everything that she wants to say. _What did you say to him? What did you do?_

 

There is a part of her that wants to hurtle the words at the woman, wants to scream them, but that part of her is overshadowed, dulled by a grief that nearly chokes her, and rage, anger so cold it burns her, towards the Grounders and their need to avenge blood, towards Clarke for not doing what she’d promised to do, and right now, that is all she can focus on, all that encompasses her thoughts. 

 

The Commander calls out sharply, ‘ _Onya’._

 

Anya sweeps away from Raven to follow her Commander into the tent, hoping that Clarke has gathered her composure. She ignores the two pricks of heat between her shoulder blades, and does not look back. 

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

Anya can feel Raven’s eyes on her on and off throughout the night. The weight of them is strangely familiar. She knows its her because the burn of accusation and raw grief she feels directed at her is ever present in Raven’s eyes whenever Anya does glance at her to confirm her suspicions, and its not a look solely reserved for her. 

 

Glancing up from the fire, Anya can see that Raven is levelling a harsh, furious glare at Clarke, lying close beside her, her eyes determinedly closed. The girl has guts, Anya has to admit, for choosing to sleep on the same side as her people, rather than with the Sky people. There are many of her people who do not want this alliance to take place.

 

_‘We should not have let her come’._ Indra sits down beside her, eyes fixed on Raven.  _‘She may try and take revenge on our Commander’._

 

Anya would be lying if she said that the possibility hadn’t occurred to her. She holds her palms out to the fire, watching her former mentor out of the corner of her eye. She says, carefully,  _‘her anger is directed towards Clarke. If I must, I will take the rest of the blame’._

 

Indra hisses.  _‘And what did you do?’_

 

_‘I convinced the murderer to give himself up’._

 

She sees Indra’s lips twitch. There is a pause. Then, she says, ‘ _you always did have a way with words’._

 

Anya nearly smiles. She learnt, under Indra’s tuition, that words have power. Only their warriors could speak English, and she’d discovered early on, that in a fight, her adversaries were often unprepared for the barage of words she’d hurl at them. They expected grunts and snarls of anger, the occasional word in their own tongue, not a stream of curses and insults. Anya spat words in their faces, as sharp as the blades she wielded in her hands. 

 

_‘You know that I will do whatever it takes to protect our Commander, Indra. I will keep an eye on Raven’._

 

Indra is silent. Anya glances at her, to see that the woman is looking over at the sleeping Sky people. Raven has stood, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, folded into the tight cross of her arms. The woman crosses the short distance towards them, passing the fire, stepping over Clarke’s feet until she’s standing in front of them. Indra tenses. 

 

‘I want a word’. 

 

Anya stares up at her for a moment, and Raven stands her ground, arms locked over her chest, chin tilted high. She imagines that she can hear Indra growling. 

 

Then Anya stands with a short word to Indra that Raven cannot understand, and follows her away from the group, out of hearing. Raven sees Clarke sit up abruptly out of the corner of her eye, brow creased with concern and apprehension, and grits her teeth to quell the anger that bubbles up inside her. 

 

The handle of the blade feels white hot between her fingers. 

 

She shifts her hand further into the crease of her elbow, hidden beneath her blanket, and meets Anya’s eyes with a steel of her own.  The light of the moon casts a watery, silver light over her, making her appear strangely unearthly and alien, a statue carved from marble, a warrior queen immortalised in stone. Raven is reminded of the statues of the Ancient Greek Gods that littered the earth before its destruction. She shakes the thought away, irritated at it. She needs to focus on her anger, and let it lead her, rather than the nagging thought that makes her want to drop her knife.

 

Anya tilts her head, and waits. 

 

Raven tries to keep her voice strong and level. ‘I want to know what you said to Finn’. 

 

Anya’s expression does not shift. She says, ‘I told him the truth. That he would get you all killed unless he gave himself up’. 

 

Raven waits for her anger to come, for it to roar and spike and consume her, to fuel her words and actions, but it does not. Perhaps it is because there is a part of her, however small, that knows that words are, in the end, just words. There is a part of her that knows that Finn, the boy who was willing to give up his freedom for her, who would’ve died for it when he reached eighteen, wouldn’t have given himself up because of a few words uttered by a stranger. She knows, as surely as she knows that she will not use the knife burning her hand, that Finn gave himself up, because that was who he was. A boy who would do whatever it took to protect the people he loved, even if that took him down a dark path. 

 

Stil, she clenches her jaw tightly, hoping that Anya will read it as anger. ‘Your people believe that blood must be avenged in blood, Anya. Why shouldn’t I demand vengeance of my own?’

 

Anya’s eyebrows rise, a sudden, surprising movement against the immovable mask Raven has grown accustomed to. ‘You mistake our ways, Raven. There is a difference between vengeance and justice’. 

 

‘And how does demanding Finn’s death outline the difference?’

 

Anya frowns, searching Raven’s face intently. Raven wonders what she sees. ‘Vengeance’, she says, slowly, deliberately, as if she wants to make sure that Raven will not misinterpret her words, ‘is acted out by those too grief stricken to judge the wisdom, and the consequences of their actions. Vengeance can lead to wars between clans. Vengeance’, her voice hardens, eyes sharp and cold, ‘would have been me, wanting blood for Tris’ death’.

 

Raven blinks, momentarily distracted by the way the woman’s mouth twitched down, the muscles in her throat visibly tightening, as she says the name. ‘Who was Tris?’

 

‘My second’, and now Raven can see something terribly familiar in Anya’s eyes, something she saw when she saw herself reflected in Clarke’s eyes, ‘she died as a consequence of _your_ bomb on the bridge’. 

 

Raven swallows. She imagines Anya closing the distance between them, and seeking that vengeance. ‘I won’t apologise for doing what I had to do’, she says, quietly, justified and yet wise enough to know that goading this woman, that taunting her, will probably get her killed. 

 

Anya tilts her head, and she smiles, small, victorious, and Raven realises that she’s just proven the woman’s point. ‘Then neither will I’. Her voice softens slightly, almost imperceptibly, and Raven thinks that she wouldn’t recognise it, if she hadn’t heard it before. ‘You could use that knife in your hand, Raven’, she says, that strange smile still lingering around her mouth, ‘and start a war between our people, again. Or you can recognise what you already know’. 

 

Raven uncrosses her arms slowly, and the blade gleams silver and deadly in the moonlight. Anya does not react, and it occurs to Raven that the woman would probably have her on her back on the forest floor before she’d even begun to move. She’d probably have a chance in a million of actually landing a hit on her. But she doesn’t have any desire to take that chance, she realises, and somehow, she knows that she’d never really had it anyway. She wanted an answer from the only Grounder whose done anything more than grunt and scowl at her, aside from Lincoln, and Raven’s never felt that he would answer her questions about his culture, after what she did to him. 

 

She slides the knife back into its sheath on her leg, and some of the tension seeps from Anya’s shoulders. ‘Fine’, she says sharply, ‘I won’t seek _vengeance_ on your people for this. But thats only because its what Finn would want’. 

 

She thinks she catches a flash of doubt in the slight furrow of Anya’s brow, and scoffs. She holds up her hand and intones flatly, ‘I solemnly swear not to take revenge on you or your Commander for what you’ve taken from me’. 

 

Anya’s smile is sharp and brilliant, like the light of a blinding moon emerging from behind a cloud, and it is so abrupt and startling and brief that Raven almost misses it, and thinks that she’s imagined it when its gone. But the corners of Anya’s eyes are crinkled in what Raven imagines might be amusement. She inclines her head. 

 

The silence that follows is too comfortable for Raven’s liking. After a moment, Anya breaks it. ‘We do what we have to do to survive, Raven’, she says, and Raven wishes that this woman would just growl at her, instead of speak with that softness she cannot identify. ‘And you are very good at surviving, from what I hear’. 

 

Raven watches Anya sweep away from her, back towards the circle of tentative allies, and wishes that she could hate the woman. But she can’t, because she looked into Anya’s eyes and saw an old, old wound that runs deeper than the loss of the girl she called Tris, something awfully familiar that makes Raven thinks the other woman understands. She watches her walk away, and thinks that, of all the people she’ll never be able to forgive for this, for what they took from her, Anya will not be one of them. 

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

Clarke thinks it would be so much easier if she could just hate Lexa. But she doesn’t. She’s too full of self loathing and dulled rage at what the world has made them into to feel anything more than wariness towards the immovable Commander, tinged with a hint of gratitude that she hasn’t asked for any more blood. 

 

At least, that is until the Commander says, with more emotion than she’s ever said anything, ‘I lost someone special to me too’. 

 

Clarke does not look away from the ashes of the pyre that burned Finn and his victims, joined together in death, but all her attention has become sharp and focused, listening intently to Lexa’s words. 

 

The Commander continues, in that same tone, far from the biting commands in a foreign tongue. ‘Her name was Costia’. 

 

Clarke looks up finally, because she has a desperate need to see whether that same strange emotion is written on the Commander’s face. All she sees is a sharp, clenched jaw, hard eyes resolutely fixed on the burning pyre. There is nothing to indicate that her words carry any weight, except for the tightness in her voice, that strange emotion that makes her sound almost painfully human. ‘She was captured by the Ice Nation whose Queen believed she new my secrets’. Lexa pauses, and Clarke has the strangest feeling that she’s trying to gather herself. ‘Because she was mine’, she continues, that that emotion in her voice is almost painful to hear, ‘they tortured her, killed her. Cut off her head’. 

 

Clarke feels nausea twist her stomach, watching the way Lexa’s jaw clenches we she swallows. ‘I’m sorry’, she says, softly, fascinated by this hint of humanity that she has previously not seen in the young woman, and wondering why the woman is even telling her this. 

 

Lexa doesn’t acknowledge her. Instead, she says, ‘I thought I’d never get over the pain. But I did’. 

 

_Oh_ , thinks Clarke, turning back to look at the charred skeleton of the pyre. Its an odd thought, the idea that this hard, cold Commander, is trying to give her advice. ‘How?’ 

 

‘By recognising it for what it is’. And now, Clarke can feel Lexa’s eyes on her, and there is steel reinforcing her words. ‘Weakness’.  

 

Clarke frowns, turning to look at the Lexa again, and she sees the Commander behind her eyes. ‘What is? Love?’

 

Lexa nods slightly. 

 

Clarke nearly snorts in exasperation. ‘So you just stopped caring about everyone?’ She shakes her head slightly, and turns away from the Commander again. ‘I could never do that’. 

 

The Commander’s voice is hard and unwavering . ‘Then you put the people you care about in danger, and the pain will never go away’. 

 

Clarke glances at her again, struck by the significance of the woman’s words. Staring at her, she thinks of Anya, and the way the woman called for Tris in the claws of her fever. The Commander’s expression speaks of horrors that have never quite left her, and Clarke thinks she sees a hint of what it must be, to carry the weight of a nation on your shoulders, so young. ‘The dead are gone, Clarke. The living are hungry’. 

 

Clarke watches Lexa turn away from her, any hint of that humanity locked away again, her words turning over again and again in her head. She thinks about the fact that the woman believes that she has to stop caring, to stop loving, to protect people, and thinks that that belief is a strange paradox. The Commander does not love, because she loves. 

 

She shakes the thought from her mind, only for it to be replaced by another. Surely its not that easy. How many times as the Commander slipped?

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

That thought does not leave her, and when Gustus drops to his knees, coughing and vomiting, his face turning red and purple, she sees the split second of panic and fear that flits across Lexa’s face, and that thought is the only thing she can focus on, for a moment. 

 

And then horror, and panic, and _no, no, no this can’t be happening_. They can’t have come this far, they can’t have lost so much, for the alliance to crumble apart now. 

 

The rage in Lexa’s eyes is terrible to see, and Clarke stares into them and tries desperately to convey that this was not them, it _could not have been them._ But Lexa looks away from her, to the small bottle a Grounder holds in his hand, and her jaw is sharp and tight and strong. 

 

Lexa turns to Anya, Anya who stands beside her, eyes flickering rapidly over everyone in the room, searching, analysing, her lips twisted in a snarl. She is the only Grounder who has not drawn a weapon. ‘ _Onya’,_ she spits, fire and brimstone, ‘ _find out who did this’._

 

Anya nods sharply, and then Lexa sweeps out of the room, drawing all the warmth with her, and her warriors follow. Anya plucks the bottle of poison from the man’s hand as he passes her, and Clarke watches her lift it to the light, turning it over between her fingers. 

 

‘Lincoln’, she says, and Lincoln steps towards her hesitantly, the slam of the door echoing in their ears. ‘What sort of poison is this?’ 

 

Lincoln steps up to her, and takes it carefully from her hands. Clarke turns away from them, searching the room until she finds Raven, bending over near the table that was pushed roughly aside, a symbol of this alliance that looks like it is already failing. 

 

Clarke can practically see Raven’s hackles rising as she steps towards her, even though the other woman keeps her eyes to the floor. ‘Raven’, she says, quietly, the desperation she feels leaking through to her voice. ‘I need to know if you are responsible for that’. 

 

Raven’s whole body tenses. ‘I’d step back if I was you’. 

 

Clarke ignores the clear warning. ‘You wanted me to kill Lexa, if you were responsible for this - '

 

She does not see the punch coming, and the strength gathered behind Raven’s fist sends her staggering backwards. She lifts a hand to her stinging cheek, turning to face Raven, who is panting, her eyes wild and furious. ‘You’re the only murderer here’, she spits, and Clarke, Clarke can not contradict her. 

 

Octavia is suddenly there, not quite separating them, but close enough to step between them, her eyes hard. Abby is beside her, her touch light and gentle on Clarke’s shoulder. Clarke sees Anya emerge out of dark on their other side, her hands raised slightly, but Clarke is distracted by a slight movement in the shadows behind her. 

 

Her mouth goes dry at the sight of Finn standing in the shadows. She grits her teeth, staring into the dark, condemning pools of his dead eyes. ‘Leave me alone’, she hisses, and all heads turn to follow her line of sight. ‘You gave me no _choice._ Why did you have to give yourself up?’ her voice breaks on the last word, breaks and shatters, and she sees something shift in Raven’s expression, anger giving way to something like horror. 

 

_‘Klark_ ’, Anya’s voice, sharp and hissed, snaps her away from the darkness in Finn’s eyes, and she looks around at them all. All of them wear a similar expression, shock and pity and horror, and its all too much, too much and too overwhelming, but it is the _understanding_ in Anya’s eyes that makes it all worse. 

 

She pulls herself from her mother’s grasp and flees to the other side of the room, Finn’s eyes heavy and burning between her shoulders. She can’t escape him, and she doesn’t know if she ever will. 

 

She’s not sure how long she’s been sitting there, rocking back and forth minutely, before a pair of boots framed by a long cloak enters her field of vision. Anya crouches down in front of her, her expression just as closed as ever. Clarke wonders what the woman is doing, but doesn’t ask her. 

 

Anya looks up at her, dark eyes two points of bright light surrounded by war paint. She’s inked in the two lines beneath her cheek bones again. Anya does not reach for her hands, as her mother might of, as anyone else might have, but crouches there staring up at her, and after a moment, she says quietly, ‘mercy killings are not uncommon among our people’. 

 

Clarke blinks. Anya’s words are clearly for her, and her alone, judging by how quietly she is speaking, close despite not touching her. Anya continues, ‘I’m sure Abby told you about what Nyko tried to do’.

 

Clarke swallows. ‘Its not the same thing’. 

 

Anya snorts, irritation flaring in her eyes. ‘He wanted to save Lincoln from a painful death. Is that not what you were trying to do?'

 

‘I loved Finn’, says Clarke, just as quietly, afraid that the ghost will hear her, and she doesn’t know what tense she’s referring to anymore, but there was a moment, a time, when she loved him. 

 

Anya’s expression seems to soften. When she speaks again, Clarke hears something raw in her voice. ‘I was younger than you when I first killed someone out of mercy’.

 

Clarke looks up from her hands slowly, and swallows when she sees the expression in Anya’s eyes, something like compassion and understanding mixed together with that same, infinite sorrow she saw when Anya leaned against the containers under the Mountain. Anya meets her gaze steadily. ‘I loved a boy who became a Reaper. The Mountain Men left me little choice’. 

 

Clarke wants to reach for her, but at the same time, she’s almost afraid to move, afraid of breaking whatever has prompted this confession from the woman who once tried to kill her. Anya takes a deep breath, attempting to keep her voice steady, but Clarke hears it waver when she says, ‘it is not an easy thing, to have the blood of someone you love on your hands. But it was necessary, Clarke. I did what had to be done, to save him from suffering, just as you did’. 

 

Clarke sees Finn at the edge of her vision, his eyes dark and accusing, and cannot prevent herself from glancing in his direction. Anya follows her gaze, and reaches up to grasp Clarke’s chin, forcing her to look away from Finn forcefully. Her grip is tight and pinching, her eyes hard. ‘Do not let his spirit twist that decision’. 

 

She does not let go until Clarke nods, once, unable to speak past the lump in her throat, and then Anya lets go and stands, sweeping away from her before she can say a word. She wonders, as she stares after the woman’s retreating form, how Anya could’ve possibly known about Finn’s ghost. 

 

It is an incredibly obvious answer. Clarke wishes she had the courage to ask whether the spirit of the boy Anya loved has stopped following her. 

 

The door swings open, and Lexa enters, flanked by Indra and Nyko on either side. Her eyes are cold, her mask tinged with suppressed anger. ‘ _Onya’,_ she snaps, and the older woman crosses the room to her. ‘What have you discovered? _’_

 

Anya meets the Commander’s gaze steadily, her arms crossed, and bows her head once respectfully before saying, slowly, ‘I do not believe that Raven of the Sky people was responsible for this,  _heda’._

 

Her voice rings through the room, and Raven’s eyes widen, her lips parting in surprise at the woman’s words. Lexa’s eyes narrow slightly. ‘Explain’.

 

Anya says, ‘the girl is the perfect scapegoat for any attempt on your life. I do not believe that she would be stupid enough to make an attempt on your life and then keep the evidence on her’. 

 

Lexa stares at Anya for a moment, clearly weighing the woman’s words against what she’s seen for herself. Clarke feels a prickle of apprehension run up her spine that has nothing to do with the form she can see flickering in the shadows. ‘Then who do you believe was responsible for this?’

 

Anya hesitates. Its clear that she thinks that what she does believe will not be well received by her Commander. But she speaks firmly. ‘That poison was concocted from herbs that these Sky people could have no knowledge of. I believe it was one of our own,  _heda’._

 

_‘_ Anya _’,_ hisses Indra, and Anya seems to flinch. ‘Do not be as soft as Lincoln’. 

 

Anya’s eyes narrow, her mask hardening to immovable stone. ‘There are many of our people who would rather see you dead, _heda_ , than this alliance prosper’. 

 

Lexa tilts her head slightly, eyes flickering between Anya’s. Then she says, ‘ _you may believe this, Anya, and you may be right about others wanting me dead. But you have no proof, and there was no one else who had the same opportunity'._

 

She turns, nodding her head sharply at Nyko, and the man standing silently behind him. ‘ _Take her_ ’. 

 

Octavia moves to stop them, but Lincoln holds her back, and Anya remains standing there with her arms crossed, radiating a sense of frustration that is almost palpable. Raven is dragged out of the room, her jaw set and her eyes bright. Indra pauses in the doorway, glancing at Anya. The look is brief, but in the space of it, Anya has crossed to her and exited the room without a backwards glance, and the look Indra gives the rest of them is almost triumphant. 

 

Clarke feels something plummet to the pit of her stomach as she watches Anya disappear from sight, aware that the last person who had influence within the Grounders and who was, arguably, on their side, just departed. She glances at Lincoln, to see him staring at her. He inclines his head towards the door. ‘We should go’. 

 

She feels strangely numb, as she follows them out the door. She stops on the threshold, watching as Kane waits for her mother, his arm hovering at her elbow, and she nods at them. ‘I’ll be right out’. 

 

Kane hesitates, and then touches Abby’s shoulder, nodding towards the doorway. The woman pauses, eyes flicking between her daughter and the man whose judgement she has come to trust. She nods, and is gone, her last supportive smile lingering like a brand behind against Clarke’s vision. 

 

Kane rests his hand on the doorframe, and when he looks at Clarke, she sees something like trust, like support, and realises that he’s looking at her like Bellamy looks at her. As if she’s their leader. As if she’ll get them out of this. And she doesn’t know if she can. ‘If we’re going to prove that it wasn’t Raven’, he says, quickly and urgently, ‘we need to find out who else would want Lexa dead’. 

 

‘Anya already told us’, she says, hating how defeated she sounds, ‘but it could’ve been any one of her people’. 

 

‘Not everyone had the same opportunity’. 

 

‘But who did, Kane? Aside from one of us?’

 

The man has no answer for her. His shadow shifts and moves, and Finn steps towards her, silhouetted against the light streaming in from above, and Clarke hates how real he looks, how solid. She clenches her jaw, refusing to make the same mistake she did before. She doesn’t want another person to look at her with pity. There is part of her that believes that she deserves his ghost. 

 

Finn lifts his hand, and Clarke holds back a flinch, expecting an accusation, a gesture of hatred, but instead, the boy she murdered points to a cup on the floor, one that Clarke remembers was Lexa’s. 

 

It takes her only a second to understand what his ghost, what her subconscious, is trying to tell her. 

 

‘Kane’, she breathes, unable to disguise the elation in her voice. ‘It wasn’t in the bottle. It was in the cup’. 

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

When Clarke bursts out of the building, pushing past her mother’s placating hands, ignoring Bellamy’s words of warning, she thinks for one, horrible moment, that she’s too late. 

 

Raven is tied to a tree, hands suspended above her head, her face twisted and pinched, and there is blood, leaking from a wound on her arm, on her stomach, staining her clothes crimson, and for one horrible second, Clarke thinks that she’s dead. 

 

And then Indra, who is holding a blade that is stained and dripping, turns, and holds out the blade to Anya, and Raven’s eyes widen. As Clarke steps forwards, Anya takes the blade from Indra, and her attention is momentarily riveted on the raw emotion in Raven’s eyes, and the whitening of Anya’s knuckles. The woman seems to hesitate. 

 

‘Stop!’ 

 

Anya’s brief look of relief when she whirls to face Clarke is enough to turn her quick stride into a half run. Lexa looks furious. ‘Clarke’, she practically growls the name, but Clarke lifts her chin and stands her ground (she knows, by now, what showing weakness will do), ‘you cannot stop this’. 

 

‘You should’ve run’, hisses Indra, and over her shoulder, Anya stands with the sword hanging loosely in her hand, and she’s gnawing slightly on her bottom lip, a sign of agitation that Clarke has never seen from her. 

 

Clarke takes a deep breath. ‘Raven didn’t try to poison you, Lexa. None of us were responsible for this. It was one of your own people’. 

 

Lexa’s mouth tightens. Clarke turns away, and reaches for the bottle that Nyko offers her with a strangely apprehensive expression. Clarke meets Lexa’s eyes again, and then raises the bottle to her lips and drinks. She does not miss the slight widening of the Commander’s eyes at her action. She swallows past the bile that rises in her throat, her stomach churning, not from the taste, but from the hectic whirl of emotions this situation has tossed at her, and waits for Lexa to speak. 

 

Clarke can practically see the gears turning in the Commander’s mind, and when she speaks, she sounds no less furious. ‘Explain’. 

 

‘The poison wasn’t in the bottle, it was in the cup’. 

 

She can see that Lexa believes her, see that the belief remains, even when Gustus, stern and towering, leans forward to say something in their language. Again, Clarke thinks that she really should start learning the Grounder’s language. For all she knows, Lexa could lunge at her with her sword drawn because of what Gustus has said, and she’d have absolutely no warning. 

 

And then Bellamy says, ‘it was you’, and everyone goes still. ‘He poisoned the cup’, he adds, voice rising, ‘he searched Raven'. 

 

Lexa’s anger at his comment is almost palpable. ‘Gustus would never harm me’. 

 

‘You weren’t the intended target’, says Bellamy, just as evenly as Clarke, ‘the alliance was’. 

 

Lexa turns to Gustus, and says something in their language again, her words sharp and commanding. Gustus is silent for a moment, regarding his Commander with an unreadable expression. Then he says, ‘this alliance would have cost you your life, _heda_. I could not let that happen’. 

 

Clarke’s attention shifts, drawn by a slight movement among the still figures, and she sees Anya, twirling the sword between her fingers, shifting on her feet, and her mouth is turned down, and the expression in her eyes as she looks up at Lexa’s bodyguard is one of understanding and horror, wrapped up in a hint of that same, infinite sorrow revealed to her down in the Mountain. It sticks with her, that look, that lack of anger, or betrayal, as if Anya understands exactly what Gustus has done, beyond his words, and understands, too, exactly why he did it. 

 

She’s jolted from her thoughts by another sharp command from Lexa, but she doesn’t try and understand the words. Instead, she focuses on something else, something raw, something telling. 

 

She’s aware of Anya stepping forward and wrapping a hand around Raven’s elbow, reaching up to cut her bonds. She’s aware of Bellamy catching her friend’s weight, of Anya ducking under her other arm, stooping to help support her weight, of the woman shouting, ‘ _Linkton!’_

 

Lincoln and Abby hurry over, and she knows that Raven will be okay (physically, but Clarke cannot stop thinking about everything Raven has been through, and about how it just isn’t stopping).

 

But she registers all the movement distantly, like background action, because all she really sees, all that really captures and holds her attention, is Lexa’s expression. 

 

Its hard and fractured and angry, but her green eyes are bright, and for a moment, Clarke thinks she sees a flash of pain in their depths, like a trick of the light, before its gone, and her face is hard, a mask of anger and betrayal and resignation, but Clarke looks at her, and she _knows_ somehow, completely unable to explain it, that the decision to tie the man to the tree, to treat him as he must be treated, is not an easy one. 

 

_We’re not so different after all_ , Abby will say later, after Lexa has driven the sword through Gustus’ heart, and ended his suffering, after the shuddering gasp that echoes like a gun shot in the silence, a sound that Clarke thinks she’ll remember for the rest of her life, imprinted on her brain, the sound of someone so far from unaffected, and those words will wrap around the expression in Lexa’s eyes, and Clarke will see herself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> parallels are my favourite 
> 
> i struggled to write this chapter wow i hope its better than it feels 
> 
> so, what did you think of Anya and Raven? And Clarke and Lexa? 
> 
> More Anya and Lexa interaction next chapter 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!


	8. Chapter 8

Anya has never felt the distance between her and her former mentor as greatly as she feels it now. There was a time when they would’ve stepped into the shadows and their people would’ve let them, and they would mourn a fallen warrior, a fallen friend, in whatever way they could. 

 

When Costia died, Anya held the new Commander as she mourned, and mourned with her. She watched the young woman rebuild herself with cracked pieces of glass and smouldering ashes and forge them into iron and steal and immovable stone. She watched Lexa die, and when she rose from the ashes, there was very little of the woman left for the world to see. Anya used to believe she was one of the few who could still see her, until the woman began to push her away.

 

But Anya saw her there, when she drove the blade through Gustus’ heart and turned those tormented, suffering eyes on Clarke. She saw Lexa when the Commander met her eyes a moment later, perhaps searching for the one other person who might truly understand what had been done, to its core.

 

And all Anya wanted to do was to go to the woman, and do something. To give her what she needed to grieve in the short time they would be given, before the chaos started up again. 

 

But she didn’t, because she couldn’t, because Lexa turned away and became the Commander again in the blink of an eye, because she had to. 

 

And as Lexa stands surrounded by her Generals, barking orders to them, outlining exactly what will happen if anyone else tries to jeopardise the alliance, explaining with admirable calm why it was necessary, Anya stands among them, and listens, and tries to be the clinical General that she has to be. 

 

It is unusually difficult. 

 

She can still see the faint horror that flickered across Lexa’s expression when she understood what must be done. She can still see the wordless plea that echoed in Raven’s eyes as she stood lashed to the tree, and feel the heavy weight of Indra’s stare. She remembers how frustrated she’d felt, at the inability of her people to see that it had to be one of their own. 

 

She can feel Raven’s blood against her skin, drying between her fingers from where she helped her from the tree. She is not sure if her people see that act as a betrayal, and she’s not sure if she should feel like it was. She knows that she should have waited to be asked for help, rather than rushing forward of her own accord. It puzzles her, because looking back, she cannot remember making a conscious decision to help the woman. She just did. That bothers her. 

 

The atmosphere in the council room is heavy. She can taste the malice. Lexa’s Generals trust her, because she is their Commander, and she has brought a near peace to their clans. The malice is directed towards the Sky people, and she can see it flash in their eyes whenever Lexa mentions them. 

 

She feels like the weight of what Lexa has done is a suffocating presence on her shoulders. 

 

Gustus was one of the few people who would never harm Lexa. Her people might love her, but there are always those with ambitions. The life of a Commander is not an easy one, and not just because of the Mountain, or threats from other clans. If she makes the wrong decisions at the wrong times, her people could decide that the Commander’s spirit needs freeing. Gustus would’ve protected Lexa against whatever came at her. 

 

And Gustus was right. This alliance could be the death of Lexa, if it backfires, if its not successful. And if that happens, Anya would give her life to protect Lexa, but she doesn’t know how many would do the same. 

 

She feels Gustus’ loss like someone has taken something from within her, something solid and ever present, and it leaves a hole. 

 

There will be no feast to celebrate the alliance. The food that was not tossed carelessly on the floor during the panic as tables were shoved aside has been handed out to the people it was intended for, to the Sky people who have retreated to a corner of Tondc, a place that others avoid like the plague, and to Lexa’s Generals. 

 

The alliance already feels tainted. 

 

More than anything in that moment, more than anger or hatred, Anya feels tired. It is an exhaustion so deep she can feel it in her bones, and she feels like she could easily trace it, to the first time she woke up, strung upside down in Mount Weather with the groans of her people filling the room, an ache pulsing through her veins. 

 

It will be a long time before that exhaustion leaves her. It will be a long time before she has the opportunity to truly rest, and to grieve. 

 

For now, Gustus must be a loss that she will push to the back of her mind. It will become part of the anger and suffering that has forged her armour, and she will use it to bring the Mountain Men down. 

 

That is what she tells herself, as Lexa speaks to them, her voice carrying clearly through the room, even though she speaks quietly. Anya stands with her arms folded tightly, Indra silent and steady beside her, and no one mentions the huge absence among them. She watches her Commander, and despite everything, despite how much she wishes they were alone, and things were different, or perhaps in spite of it, she feels proud. Lexa’s expression is stone, smooth unbroken marble. Her eyes reflect a storm of ice and sleet, but there is no weakness there. There is anger when she speaks of the Mountain Men, a rage that reflects the fires brewing in all their hears, but Anya looks at her, and sees what she knows they all see. Strength. 

 

 _‘Are we clear?’_ Lexa finishes her speech with a question addressed to them all, her voice cold and low, a warning wrapped up in a promise. She has already killed for this alliance, and she will do so again. 

 

Her Generals nod, almost as one, and their Commander bows her head slightly, and steps aside. She does not speak, but the dismissal is clear. 

 

Her Generals file out one by one, bowing their heads and murmuring _heda_ as they pass her. Anya follows them, Indra at her shoulder, bowing her head as she passes their Commander. 

 

‘ _Anya_ ’. 

 

Lexa says her name in the same tone she addressed all her Generals, sharp and commanding, without question. 

 

Anya stops. She waits until Indra has passed her, until Lexa’s temporary body guard has departed, remains with her back to the Commander and her arms tightly crossed. She doesn’t turn until she’s sure they’re alone, until the heavy canvas falls back over Indra’s retreating form. 

 

‘ _Anya_ ’, Lexa says again, her voice no less strong, no less steady, but its softer, quieter, and Anya feels something tighten around her heart. 

 

When she turns, Lexa is unbuckling her shoulder guard. She watches the woman remove the pieces that make up the image of the hard, unrelenting Commander that she has to be, slipping off the red sash and the heavy coat, and waits. She wants to do something, anything, she wants to give Lexa what she needs, but she doesn’t know what that is, and she doesn’t know if Lexa wants anything from her. 

 

She waits. After the chaos of everything that has happened, the silence is welcome, despite how laden it feels. Lexa turns her back to her, her attention shifting to the table, to something Anya cannot see. She knows what that gesture means. Without words, Lexa is showing her that she is trusted, and Anya knows how hard that is for her. 

 

A faint glow gleams at Lexa’s edges, and then the woman steps aside, and Anya sees that she has lit a candle, one of the ones scattered around the edges of the map. She is holding a knife to the flame, the edge glowing, searing against her eyes. And Anya understands exactly what Lexa wants her to do. 

 

‘ _Lexa_ -’

 

Lexa shoots her a look, a dark warning. Anya stops, biting her lip. Their scars - their kill marks, are a sign of honour. A mark for each person they kill in battle. The Sky People do not understand why they do it, and they don’t understand their pride. Anya understands exactly why Lexa wants this, but it doesn’t mean she can’t feel reserved. 

 

There is part of her that wants to try again, that wants to tell Lexa that this isn’t necessary, that she can’t let Gustus’ death weigh on her conscious, that she did what needed to be done and she can’t hold herself responsible for the actions of everyone else. But she doesn’t, because she’s said those words to herself, countless times, and it never makes any difference. You feel how you feel, and behind her mask, Lexa feels deeply. 

 

Lexa glances at her, and seems to understand some of her thoughts. Her expression softens, her mask falls, and Anya sees grief and exhaustion in the woman’s bright eyes. It takes her breath away, the fact that Lexa is letting her see her emotions, letting her see how she really feels. She had wondered, when Tristan turned up with orders from the Commander, whether Lexa had lost faith in her. Whether she didn’t trust her anymore. 

 

The knowledge that she was wrong is an almost indescribable feeling.

 

Lexa turns to face her fully, letting the flame lick around the edge of the blade. It is red hot. She fixes Anya with a complicated, determined look. ‘ _I can do this myself, Anya…_ ’ she pauses, and her jaw works. It is apparent that she is trying to come to a decision. She leaves the sentence hanging. 

 

Anya takes a step forward and holds out her hand. ‘ _You don’t have to ask_ ’. 

 

Lexa’s expression melts, just for a moment, relief flickering behind her eyes. Anya steps forward to take the knife from her, keeping it in the flame while Lexa removes her shirt. After a moment, she says, ‘ _I understand why you’re doing this, Lexa, but… what happened was not your fault_ ’. 

 

Lexa pauses, and does not look at her, but her jaw tightens. When she says nothing, Anya continues, her voice soft, ‘ _you cannot hold yourself responsible for the actions of every individual under your command. Gustus made his choice_ ’. 

 

‘ _Gustus was trying to protect me_ ’.

 

For one wild moment, Anya is reminded of Clarke, and the boy she claimed slaughtered a village for her. The comparison startles her, and there is another moment of silence before she is able to speak again. ‘ _Yes, he was. But it was his choice to do that. He did what he thought was right, and it was ultimately the wrong decision. But it was his choice to make, and the consequences were for him alone’._ She touches Lexa’s arm lightly, and the woman does not shift away from her. _‘Sometimes decisions are taken out of our hands. We can’t hold ourselves responsible for the actions of others_ ’. 

 

Lexa sighs, and her mask slips again. This time, the woman lets it stay down, and Anya sees how truly tired Lexa looks. ‘ _You think I’m weak_ ’. 

 

Anya blinks, and she frowns deeply, her fingers tightening on Lexa’s arm. ‘ _No_ ’, she says, sharply, _‘I think you are strong, Lexa. Caring doesn’t make you weak’._

 

Lexa meets her gaze. ‘ _How many times have you told yourself that, Anya?’_

 

Anya smiles wryly, feeling her throat tighten slightly. ‘ _Too many to count’._

 

_‘Then why do you still insist that its true?’_

 

Anya takes a deep breath, and puts the knife down on the table. She presses her palm against her abdomen as she speaks, focusing on the physical ache rather than the one in her heart. ‘ _Do you think that I didn’t wish that I didn’t care, Lexa? I do, every day. Every time I lose a warrior, or watch a friend fall, I wish that I could shut everything off’._ She swallows tightly, Lexa’s eyes burning into her own. This is the first time that she’s truly spoken to her former second about this, and Lexa is almost riveted by the emotion in Anya’s eyes. ‘ _And I tried, for a while. When I was forced to kill Icarus, I did this too’,_ she gestures to the knife beside them, its blade still white hot, searing against their eyes. Anya pauses, attempting to force down the visual images that come with speaking of these memories. She hates that she has to reveal that she is weak enough to still be affected by these memories, but she feels like it is necessary. If Lexa sees her as nothing but weak after this, then so be it. ‘ _I tried shutting everything out. And I was successful, for a long time. I became ruthless. Indra will tell you that I became unstoppable. But…’_ she shrugs, and has the bizarre urge to laugh. She's telling Lexa this because she needs the younger woman to understand that sometimes, not caring is just as harmful as caring _too much_ , and yet she knows that this could simply push her Commander further away. ‘ _I felt hollow. I became something of a danger, to myself and others. I didn’t care if I was hurt, and I didn’t care if anyone else was_ ’. She became, in truth, exactly like Tristan, and perhaps that was why she felt so betrayed when Lexa sent the man to take charge, because Anya _could_ be ruthless, could be merciless to the last, even if sometimes, she chose not to be. 

 

_‘What changed?’_

 

Anya has to take it as a good sign that Lexa simply sounds curious, not contemptuous, not angry. Anya smiles, and it almost hurts. _‘Indra found a means of teaching me an important lesson’._ Anya meets Lexa’s eyes again _. ‘She gave me a second’_.

 

Lexa’s eyes widen, and Anya sees that her words have had an impact. She continues quietly, _‘Indra told me that caring about your second was inevitable. You could either chose to fight it, or embrace it, and deal with it’_. She allows her smile to soften. ‘ _And I cared. And caring made me better. I was able to train you effectively, and I became a warrior who could lead, wisely’._

 

She reaches out and touches Lexa’s shoulder with her other hand, staring into the woman’s bright eyes. _‘Lexa, you care, however hard you try not to, because caring is inevitable. That doesn’t make you weak. Let it make you stronger’._

 

Lexa stares at her for a long, torturous moment, her jaw set, her mouth pressed into a thin line. Then she reaches out, and touches her fingers lightly against Anya’s torso, just above where they both know her injury lies. Lexa stares down at her fingers, and then slowly, she nods. ‘ _You are right, Anya_ ’, she says quietly, and her voice is soft and honest and young. _‘I do care’_. 

 

Anya stands there, Lexa’s hand pressed softly against her wound, holding onto her, with a knife burning, waiting, between them, and thinks that, even though she is no longer the younger woman’s mentor, she has finally done something right. For the first time since she watched Lexa crumble under the grief of loss that Anya had not prepared her for, the sting of failure is numbed. 

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

Raven feels numb. She feels raw. She feels stretched tight and exposed, like someone is reaching inside her and pulling at her gut. Her throat feels tight, and there is a stubborn burn behind her eyes. 

 

It’s too much. She feels overwhelmed, and she hates it. She hates feeling like she can’t control how she’s feeling. She hates feeling like the slightest thing could tip her over the edge. 

 

She is grateful, at least, for the solitude. She’s sitting alone in the tent, the radio laid out before her. Perhaps the others believe she needs some space after what has happened, or maybe they think that she needs silence to work efficiently. She doesn’t know, and she doesn’t particularly care. 

 

She has not touched the radio. She needs to, she knows that. But she tried, and her hands were shaking too much. She was worried that if she kept trying, she’d break something out of frustration. 

 

Abby thinks she needs time, and maybe she’s right. Everything that has happened to her, from realising that her leg was permanently damaged, to losing the boy she has known her whole life, has happened in a matter of days. Maybe she does need time. Raven snorts at the idea. There simply _isn’t_ time. She can’t mourn the boy she loved because she doesn’t know how long that will take, and she can’t curl up into a ball and sob, or retreat into herself for as long as necessary, because she is needed. They need her to fix the radio. For now, she needs to take what she’s feeling, and push it away. But it is hard. 

 

Behind her, there is a rustle of heavy material as someone enters the tent. She tenses, but doesn’t turn. She tries to quell the anger that rushes up. The only person who hasn’t already checked on her is Clarke, and despite whatever understanding she might have come to regarding Clarke’s decision to kill Finn when she watched what the Grounders did to Gustus, one of their own, she is in no mood to see her. ‘I’m working on the radio, Clarke’, she snaps, wishing to be left in peace. ‘I’ll come and get you when its done’. 

 

When all she receives in response is silence, Raven rolls her eyes, and turns, ready to lash out, but freezes when she sees that her visitor is not, in fact, Clarke. 

 

It’s Anya.

 

The two women stare at each other. Anya looks… not exactly shaken, but affected. Her expression seems less frosty, less unreadable, and the skin around her mouth looks pinched. She stands straight, rigid, as if she is uncomfortable, unsure about her presence, and her arms are folded. Raven sees that there is dried blood staining her fingers. She wonders if it is hers. 

 

At the visual reminder of what she endured, Raven grits her teeth, unwilling to let the woman see that it affects her. She is not in the mood to interpret Anya’s silence. ‘If you’re looking for Clarke’, she says, attempting to keep her voice level, ‘you can see that she’s not here’. 

 

The woman’s brow furrows slightly, and she tilts her head, regarding Raven with something that might be confusion, as if she doesn’t understand why she would assume that. ‘I’m not’, she pauses, an uncharacteristic hesitation, ‘I’m not here for Clarke’. 

 

Raven blinks. Then she sighs, pressing her hands against her face, and stifling a groan of frustration.  She doesn’t have the energy to deal with Anya’s cryptic words, the expressions that reveal so little and yet are so telling. 

 

Anya confuses her. She has since she sat in a tub with her back to her, and told her that she was not a cripple. She doesn’t understand the woman. She doesn’t understand why she’s stood up for her, twice now, at obvious risk to herself. She doesn’t understand why, when she looks at the Grounder woman, she doesn’t feel the same overwhelming anger and mistrust that she feels whenever she is around Anya’s people. 

 

Instead, seeing Anya standing just inside the tent entrance elicits a strange ache in her heart. _That_ , at least, she partly understands. Anya believed her. Without reservation, without conditions, without ulterior motive, Anya _believed_ that she was innocent, when Raven’s own people, when Clarke, thought she was a suspect. There is part of her that understands that Clarke did have some reason, considering what had happened with Finn, and that she had indeed asked her to kill Lexa. But it was strangely… insulting, that Clarke would think that she was stupid enough to keep the murder weapon on her. It felt like a betrayal, on top of what her friend had done to Finn - on top of her murdering the boy Raven loved - because she had thought, had believed, that Clarke would stand with her, despite everything. 

 

There is a difference, in her mind, between standing with someone because you care for them, and believing that they did nothing wrong. When Raven heard what Finn had done, she was horrified. _Of course_ she knew it was wrong. But she stood with him, and defended him, and refused to let anyone give him up, because she loved him. Clarke tried to stop Lexa, tried to defend her, but maybe she failed because the Commander saw that Raven’s own friend doubted her innocence. 

 

And she doesn’t understand why Anya, of all people, did. Why the woman stood there and told the Commander, without flinching, ignoring the hostility in the room, that Raven was innocent. 

 

She wants to ask, wants to - needs to know, but she’s afraid that she’ll only get more cryptic answers, more subtle expressions. She takes a deep breath and says, ‘did you need something?’

 

Anya continues to stare at her, wearing that same small frown, and Raven wonders how long she’s been sitting there wrapped in her own thoughts. She wonders if she imagines the hint of concern in the woman’s dark eyes. At her words, Anya’s frown deepens, and she looks away, and a strangely conflicted look passes over her expression. Raven is surprised she can even read that. 

 

There is part of her that is aware that the more she’s interacted with Anya since they first met in the Medical tent, the more she’s picking up and the less unreadable she is. Its… hints, more than anything. The woman still wears a mask, still stares at her with an impossibly blank expression, but sometimes something seems to shift. She doesn’t know what it means. She doesn’t know whether Anya is letting her see those shifts, or whether she’s just become better at reading her. She doesn’t know which is the more unlikely. 

 

After a moment, Anya speaks, slowly, as if she’s hesitant. ‘I wanted to… apologise. For my people’s readiness to condemn you’. That frown is almost severe now, and there is something… complicated in her eyes. She looks like she’s suffering some sort of turmoil. 

 

Raven just stares, her lips parted in surprise. Whatever she had expected Anya to say, it wasn’t that. Anya has always staunchly defended her people’s actions. She reacts like a live wire has been touched to her skin whenever someone speaks of the Grounders as savages, and was blatantly furious when it was implied that vengeance and justice were the same thing. To hear this, feels unreal. 

 

Anya glances at her, and her lips thin when she sees her expression. ‘They had reason, to suspect you. Even you must know that. But… our people are not so different, in some respects. Your people want to see us as nothing more than savages. You want to see us as wrong, and evil. Many of my people want nothing to do with the people who fell from the sky, bringing destruction with them. It was… easy, to believe that it was you, and not one of our own’. 

 

For some reason, hearing the explanation from this woman doesn’t feel like an excuse. Maybe its because, if there is one thing she knows about Anya, it’s that the woman hates excuses. It doesn’t feel like Anya is trying to excuse what was done, especially when the woman adds, ‘but I am sorry, that you suffered unnecessarily’. 

 

She sounds sincere. Raven isn’t sure what to do with this apology. It is stranger still, because Anya did nothing wrong. Anya _defended_ her, and here she is, apologising for something she didn’t do. ‘You believed me’, she says, the words leaving her mouth before she’s really thought it through. ‘You believed that I was innocent. Why?’

 

Anya eyebrows raise, and she truly looks surprised, and there is part of Raven that is aware that the woman is far too easy to read right now. She wonders if she knew Lexa’s bodyguard, and if his death hurt her, or if something else has happened in the time in-between. Anya says, ‘because you are smart. You built the bomb that prevented my warriors from attacking your camp. You were responsible for the mechanism that wiped out three hundred warriors, even if Clarke was the one to make the final decision. Your people are relying on you to fix that contraption, to help us bring down the Mountain Men’. For a moment, Raven imagines that Anya smiles. But when she blinks, its gone. ‘You are resourceful. If you truly wanted Lexa dead, you would not have been caught so easily’. 

 

There is a clear warning in her words, Raven notices, as if Anya is saying, _if you do, you will be caught, I promise you_ , but beyond that, Raven understands what the woman is saying. ‘You thought it was too convenient that I hadn’t thrown away the poison’. 

 

‘It was unrealistic’.

 

‘So you believed me because it was logical?’

 

‘Would you have preferred that I hadn’t believed you?’

 

Raven blinks. She sighs and shakes her head. She feels… drained. Trying to interpret Anya’s words and expressions is exhausting. ‘No I just… my own people, my friends, thought I was guilty’. 

 

Anya says nothing, but makes no move to leave. She just stands there with her arms tightly folded, and seems to be waiting for something. The distance between them is not as great as Raven had imagined. She remembers suddenly, watching Indra hand Anya the sword stained with her own blood, and remembers horror and helplessness bubbling up inside her, and being unable to prevent herself from pleading with the woman, even though she hadn’t used words. Something clicks into place. 

 

‘You hesitated’. 

 

Anya doesn’t seem to react, but her mask seems to harden. That, in itself, tells Raven something. ‘What?’

 

‘When it was your turn to cut me’, she almost spits the words, trying to show the woman that they don’t affect her. ‘You hesitated, even though all your people were there. Even though it was plain to see. Why?’

 

Hesitations are very telling. Finn didn’t hesitate to rush to Clarke’s side when she came down with the sickness the Grounders sent, but he hesitated at the thought of placing a bomb on a bridge. It told her all she needed to know, and strengthened her to do what had to be done.

 

Something complicated flits across Anya’s expression, darkening her eyes. Her mask shifts, but whatever emotion is revealed to her, Raven cannot decipher. ‘It was a mistake. A slip. I was reluctant because I still believed you were innocent. I _would_ have done it’. Her voice is hard and forceful, like she's trying to tell Raven that her hesitation was not as meaningful as it feels. They stare at each other for a moment, and then Anya blinks, and sighs. For the first time, Raven realises that beneath the heavy eye makeup, the other woman looks exhausted. It occurs to her that it was not that long ago that the woman escaped the Mountain, and her body is probably still suffering the consequences of what they did to her, along with the wound she suffered attempting to form a truce with Clarke. Anya says, quietly, almost too quietly for Raven to hear her, ‘does it matter why?’

 

‘Yes’. Raven says the word just as forcefully, and she doesn’t even know why this is so important to her. 

 

Anya gazes at her for a long time, and Raven wonders if she’s imagining the slight softening around the woman’s eyes. Then she says, ‘I thought you’d suffered enough, _Reivon_ ’. 

 

Raven stares at her, and feels that same, twisted desperation bubble up inside her, the confusion and frustration and she has the strangest urge to scream at the woman, to shout, _why do you care, why, why does it matter to you_ , because it would be _so much_ easier if this woman just hated her. If she treated her with the same blank hostility as the other Grounders. 

 

She remembers that Anya helped her cut Finn down. She remembers that Anya stood with her in the dark, knowing that she had a knife in her hand, and reasoned with her. She remembers that the woman rushed to help her down from the tree, and remembers the strength of her arm, of her hands, as she supported her. 

 

Her shoulders sag. She cannot voice those words, because she doesn’t want to scream at Anya, doesn’t wan’t to repay these strange, little kindnesses with anger. She doubts she’d get an answer, anyway. Instead, she gestures at the radio. ‘I should… I should get back to work. We’ll all suffer a lot more if we can’t bring down the Mountain’. 

 

Anya nods, and Raven watches a mask slip over her expression, unreadable once more, and realises that the woman was _letting_ her see all those subtle emotions. The woman turns, and Raven watches her move towards the tent entrance, and when Anya has a hand on the flap, Raven hears herself say, ‘Anya’. 

 

The woman pauses, and turns her head slightly. Raven sees the strong, hard edge of her profile, and says quietly, softly, ‘thank you’. 

 

She doesn’t really know what she is thanking the other woman for, but as Raven watches, the profile softens, and when Anya dips her head in acknowledgement, braided hair swinging forward to hide the brief flash of a smile, she feels that ache in her heart lessen, feels it warm, and decides that she doesn’t regret it. 

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

Clarke hesitates outside the Commander’s tent. She senses Indra pause behind her, but the woman says nothing, though Clarke suspects that she is probably irritated by the delay. Indra always seems to be irritated by Clarke and her people. 

 

She hesitates, because she’s not sure what to expect from this summoning. She’s not sure what she’s going to find when she enters the tent. Part of her wonders whether she’ll still see that softer, suffering side of Lexa revealed to her when the woman drove her sword through Gustus’ heart. Part of her hopes for that unmasked woman. But she doubts it, because Lexa is still the Commander, and the Commander was certainly there when the woman turned away. 

 

The greater part of her is worried that Lexa will be angry. That she’ll blame the Sky people for causing the circumstances that led to Gustus’ death. And Clarke doesn’t have the energy for anger, not right now. 

 

She sees Finn flicker at the edge of her vision, and takes a deep breath. She steps into the tent. 

 

Lexa is standing with her back to the entrance, surveying what appears to be a map spread out over a large table. The woman has removed her coat and shoulder guard, and is armed only with a knife strapped to her belt. She looks smaller, without her armour and weapons. 

 

Upon hearing her entrance, the woman tilts her head to the side, just enough that Clarke can see that she is still wearing her war make up. Her eye glints in the dim light. ‘Anya told me that you bested her in battle’. 

 

Clarke blinks. She approaches Lexa slowly, unsure if the woman will permit that. It takes her a moment to realise that Lexa is talking about the fight at the dropship, after their escape from the Mountain. She almost laughs, and she can hear the amusement in her voice when she says, ‘did she also tell you that I only won because she was badly injured, and recovering from a knock out drug?’

 

Lexa turns to face her, leaning her hip against the table, and folding her arms. Her expression is as unreadable as ever. ‘That makes your victory no less. You simply used what you had to your advantage’. She tilts her head slightly. ‘Beating Anya is no small feat’. 

 

Clarke frowns. She’s not sure where this is going. ‘I would not have won if she hadn’t spent days hanging upside down and having her blood drained from her. If circumstances had been different, she would’ve easily beaten me’. 

 

Lexa raises an eyebrow, but she inclines her head slightly. ‘So you admit that, in regard to combat, you have a lot to learn’. 

 

Clarke blinks again. This conversation is not one she expected. ‘I guess’. 

 

‘Anya will teach you’. Lexa says it like Clarke has no choice in the matter. ‘You will learn how to defend yourself, and you will learn our language’. 

 

Clarke doesn’t bother to hide her incredulousness. ‘Do I have a say in this?’ While she can’t deny that she hasn’t wanted to learn the Grounder’s language, she isn’t sure what to think of the Commander’s sudden interest in her skills. 

 

They both know that Lexa can’t force Clarke to learn anything. The young woman smiles slightly, but it softens nothing. ‘Of course. But considering what happened today, it should be obvious to you that there may be further attempts on this alliance. You are the leader of the Sky people, Clarke. You should be on your guard’.

 

Clarke laughs wryly. ‘Cut off the head, right?’ Lexa frowns slightly, and so Clarke says, ‘and you want to help arm me in case that happens?’

 

Lexa nods again. ‘Anya will defend you to the last, if she must. But it would be…prudent, if you could do so yourself’. 

 

Clarke decides she did not imagine the flicker of concern in Lexa’s eyes. ‘You care for her’. 

 

Lexa’s eyes narrow, and Clarke knows that they are both remembering the Commander’s words to her at the funeral pyre. But the woman does not comment, and Clarke wonders if Lexa is just as exhausted after all this as she is. ‘You could have no better teacher, Clarke. Trust her instructions, and you will learn quickly’. 

 

Clarke hesitates. She is strangely fascinated by the… softer side that the Commander denies she has. The side that cares. ‘Anya was your mentor, wasn’t she’.

 

It is not really a question, but Lexa nods all the same. ‘She taught me well’. Something that might be amusement sparks in the woman’s eyes, and Clarke is taken aback by its presence. ‘She can be… harsh, sometimes. But you will learn well’. 

 

Clarke remembers Anya cracking a rock against her skull. She remembers the woman digging her teeth into her own arm. Despite feeling like she needs to remain guarded in the Commander’s presence, Clarke allows herself to smile. ‘I don't doubt that’. 

 

Lexa stares at her for a moment, searching her face, as if contemplating her next words. Then she says, ‘Anya told me that you forced your people to take care of her injury, after she was shot, even though they wanted to let her die’. She frowns, the first real sign of conflict that Clarke has seen during this conversation. ‘For that, I thank you’. 

 

Clarke stares at her. There are a lot of things she wants to say. She wonders whether Lexa would have turned down this alliance if things had been different, and Anya had died at their hands. She wonders whether, without her mentor’s survival, the woman would be even more impossible to read. She wonders whether they would be facing war from all sides. She wants to say, _thank you, for making this alliance, thank you, for not wanting some form of revenge for what happened to Gustus,_ she wants to tell Lexa that for the first time in a long time, she feels like they have a chance at winning. The hopelessness that has weighed on her shoulders since finding the truth buried beneath the Mountain feels, for the first time, lessened. 

 

Instead, she stretches out her hand, reminded vividly of another time, on a bridge, in the dark, inexperienced, exhausted, and says, ‘we’ll make the Mountain Men pay, Lexa. Together’. 

 

Lexa does not smile, but her expression turns sharp, her eyes burn with fire, a promise of blood, and she takes Clarke’s hand, her fingers strong and warm and rough against her palm and says, ‘ _Ogeda’._

 

Clarke swallows, Lexa’s eyes burning, searing into her own, and grips the woman’s fingers tightly. ‘ _Ogeda’_ she repeats, and it sounds like a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cannot believe it has taken me so long to update this I'm so sorry everyone i hope i havent lost any of you. 
> 
> i promised myself i'd update before the next season, so here we are. 
> 
> i know a lot of people wanted sort of 'filler' scenes, as in things that we didn't see between time jumps, so this takes place between Gustus' death, and Raven fixing the radio, as on the show it looked like about a whole day had passed between then. 
> 
> anyway, i hope you liked it! let me know, as usual, what you might want to see


	9. Chapter 9

Clarke hits the ground with enough force to knock the air from her lungs. Winded, and with the world still spinning, Clarke reaches up and presses her hand against her chest, and groans. Her head throbs, and her chest feels restricted. 

 

Anya’s face enters her field of vision, blurred and distorted. ‘Again’. 

 

Clarke blinks, and the woman’s face comes into focus. She looks undeniably amused. Clarke grunts, and rolls onto her side. ‘You are enjoying this, aren’t you?’

 

Anya cocks an eyebrow. ‘What enjoyment could I possibly gain from watching you suffer?’

 

Clarke scoffs but says nothing, hauling herself upright, ignoring her aches and bruises. She’s hit the ground so many times that the sting of humiliation and embarrassment has long faded. She’s thankful that Anya has at least chosen to train her somewhere secluded from the rest of the camp, and the other Grounders. Though, it is probably less of a mercy on Anya’s part and more that she understands that seeing how incompetent the leader of the Sky People is in combat would hardly inspire respect in the other Grounders. 

 

When she turns around Anya is leaning against a tree, and any amusement has vanished from her expression. ‘I won’t enjoy it if you go and get yourself killed’.

 

Clarke presses a hand against her chest and says, ‘oh Anya, I’m touched’, in an attempt to hide that she’s massaging the area where Anya struck her. 

 

Anya pushes off the tree, her eyes hard and sharp. She points at Clarke and flicks her fingers. ‘Up’. 

 

Clarke grimaces. ‘Is beating me into the ground repeatedly going to help at all?’

 

‘It’ll do until you start taking this seriously’. 

 

‘I am tak -’

 

Anya lunges at her, a blur of movement, and Clarke raises her arm to block Anya’s, grimacing as her forearm catches the brunt of the strike, and realises that she’s angered the woman. There is more force gathered behind her blows now, her expression sharp and focused, eyes hard. 

 

Clarke lasts perhaps sixty seconds longer than the usual, before Anya sweeps her legs from underneath her, and she finds herself flat on her back again. 

 

Anya’s face looms over her, and she feels the woman press a knee against her sternum, hard enough that the pressure is restricting, and the edge of her hand comes to rest against Clarke’s neck, hard against the ridge of her throat. Clarke forces herself not to swallow, frozen against the sudden, steely anger in Anya’s eyes. Her mouth is pinched, and Clarke can see the tension in her jaw. There is something else behind the anger, and as it builds and Anya does not move, Clarke realises that it might be disappointment. 

 

‘You are not’, the woman grinds out the words between her teeth, and Clarke hears an anger in her voice that she has not heard since before their truce. ‘You don’t expect to beat me, so you stop trying. You give up. And listen to me’, the pressure on her chest increases, and Clarke wonders if she should try pushing her off, if that is what Anya wants her to do, ‘if you have that attitude with me, you’ll have that attitude with everyone and anyone who fights you’.

 

Clarke feels annoyance spark, and reaches up to push against Anya’s hand. She snaps, ‘if you really think I’d give up when someone is trying to kill me, then you don’t know me at all. Are you forgetting I beat you?’ 

 

Anya does not relent. ‘You have spirit, Clarke. And you want to survive. But whether or not you give up, any one of my people would kill you in combat at full health. You know that. I am  _trying_ to teach you enough to keep you alive’. She sighs, a sound of exasperation and irritation. ‘You could be attacked today, or tomorrow, or within a week. I cannot teach you everything within that time, but maybe I can teach you enough’. Something around her eyes softens, some of the anger seems to drain. She looks strangely tired. A wry smile flickers at the corner of her mouth. ‘I will beat you into the ground for as long as it takes you to learn’. 

 

Clarke sighs, and lets her head drop back against the ground. However angry Anya might be, however incorrect she is in assuming that Clarke is not taking these training sessions seriously, she understands that the woman is being sincere. She doesn’t want to fight her, at least, not like that. ‘Okay’, she says finally, meeting Anya’s eyes steadily. ‘Okay’, she repeats, and the anger fades from Anya’s expression. She does not smile, but some of the tension seems to drain from her, and that feels like enough. 

 

The woman nods, apparently accepting that, the not-quite apology, and says, ‘now show me how you would get out of this situation, if I was a real opponent’. 

 

What feels like hours later, bruised and battered and tired, Clarke anticipates Anya’s feint, ducks under her arm, and throws her entire weight against the woman. She feels her shoulder connect with Anya’s ribs, hears the woman hiss sharply, and then they slam into the ground. Clarke scrambles on top of her and grabs her wrists, but freezes when she sees the twisted expression of pain on the woman’s face. 

 

She lets go, rolls off. ‘Shit, Anya -’ 

 

Anya holds up a hand, pressing a hand to her ribs. Clarke freezes, half reaching for her. Anya takes a deep breath, and then gives her a quick, sharp smile, more of a grimace than anything. There is a strange look in her eye, a glimmer of something… familiar that Clarke cannot place. ‘If you are about to apologise, don’t. You did -’, she stops suddenly, and then raps her knuckles on the side of Clarke’s head. ‘It took you long enough. At least I’ll have  _some_ progress to report to the Commander’.  

 

Clarke is so startled by the gesture that she remains kneeling in the dust while Anya rises slowly to her feet. It reminds her of when the woman slapped mud on her face, amusement crinkling the corners of her eyes. She realises, suddenly, where she saw that glimmer in her eyes. She remembers sitting atop Anya’s hips with a knife in her hand, and the way she had smiled, a sharp thing, and breathed,  _you fought well_. 

 

Anya hisses as she stands, but straightens slowly, her expression like steel. Clarke clambers upright. ‘You should let me check-’. 

 

Anya laughs dryly. ‘No. Its fine, Clarke’. Catching Clarke’s dubious look, she shakes her head. ‘I haven’t pulled anything’.

 

Clarke glances down at the site of the injury, wondering if she should press, because she knows that Anya doesn’t like to reveal, or confront this injury, this weakness, but she also knows that Anya should have been resting during her recovery. She should have been taking it easy, not running around the forest, not training her. 

 

Anya seems to notice her struggle, because she shakes her head. ‘Let it go, Clarke. The Commander has asked me to train you, and I will. 

 

‘But your injury -’ 

 

‘The world will not wait for my weakness, Clarke’, Anya snaps, her expression hardening, any softness locked away again. The woman turns away, and Clarke stands there with her hand raised, biting her lip slightly. She has to remind herself that despite everything that has happened, despite the things they overcame together, and the vulnerability Anya has let her see, there are still lines. Anya is still recovering from an injury, but that is a weakness the woman would prefer to ignore — would prefer that Clarke ignored. 

 

She lets her hand drop and sighs. ‘Well, we should go back to it, then’.

 

Anya turns back to face her, and once again, her expression is unreadable. The anger isn’t there, or at least, Clarke can’t see it, and its just smooth polished stone. She inclines her head. ‘Lets see what you remember, then’. 

 

Clarke had found herself counting the blows she managed to land on Anya when they started, but had stopped because they were simply so rare. She’d switched to counting how many blows Anya landed on  _her_ , even though they were incredibly hard to miss. 

 

Now, she counts the seconds. How long she stays on her feet, how long until she lands in the dust again, with Anya leaning over her. Anya must be more annoyed about her comments, about her pushing, than her unreadable expression lets on, because she moves faster, hits harder, and Clarke lasts - 

 

_One, two, three, four -_

 

Down. 

 

‘Again’. 

 

_One, two, three, four, five, six -_

 

Down. 

 

‘ _Again’._

 

She lasts thirty seconds more than her longest stretch before she ends up on her back again. She’s out of breath, sore, and her head is spinning. But then Anya sits up beside her, and the corner of her mouth is ticked up in what might be a smile. ‘Better’, she says after a moment, and Clarke tries not to feel proud of the little achievement, because its almost ridiculous. 

 

‘Well’, Clarke hears a wheeze in her voice, and clears her throat. ‘Shall we go again?'

 

She recognises the crinkling at the corners of Anya’s eyes as a sign of amusement. She shakes her head, and Clarke manages to hide her relief. ‘The Commander will be gathering her generals soon to discuss the Mountain. You and I will be needed’. Anya stands, and stretches out a hand to help her up. 

 

Clarke has found herself counting little moments like this, since things changed. Things that show that they aren’t two people on opposite sides of a war anymore. Moments like Anya reaching down from atop her horse to pull her up, Anya wiping the blood meticulously from her hands, Anya telling her about someone that she loved, and lost. They are things that remind her that yes, things have changed, even if she still finds Anya difficult to read sometimes.

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

When Quint tackles her to the ground, Clarke hears Anya’s voice, _maybe I can teach you enough_ , and hopes to god that she was right, before adrenaline and muscle memory takes over. 

 

Quint is stronger than her, and obviously more skilled, and he got the drop on her, but when he raises his hand to punch her in the face, his other hand fastened around her throat, Clarke slams her fist into the inside of his elbow, and when he drops towards her, she jabs her thumb into his eye. 

 

He jerks up, away from her, roaring, and Clarke takes the opportunity to surge up and slam her elbow into his face. He hits her hard enough to send stars spiralling across her eyes, and she sees a knife raised in his hand.  

 

There is a glimmer out of the corner of her eye, and then a _thunk_ , and Quint rolls off her, screaming. 

 

Lexa looks _furious_ , a cold, hard mask with fire spilling from her eyes, her jaw a sharp knife edge as she speaks. Clarke doesn’t understand what she says, but it's not difficult to guess. 

 

A hand enters her field of vision, and she glances up to see Anya. She takes the offered hand, wiping the blood from her split lip, before pausing, realising that Anya is watching her. The woman looks almost _smug_. ‘And you questioned my techniques’.

 

Despite being shaken, Clarke almost laughs. ‘Is that pride I hear, Anya?’

 

‘Your skills are still a long way from being something to be proud of, Clarke’. 

 

‘ _Klark’,_ Lexa snaps, standing over Quint with her sword resting against his throat, ‘this kill is yours’. 

 

Clarke realises that she drew her gun as Anya helped her up, and she hesitates, breathing deeply to catch her breath, staring at Quint’s face. _For my brother_ , he’d said, and it makes her hesitate. 

 

A roar shakes the trees. 

 

For the first time since she has known them, she sees true alarm flitter over the Grounders’ expressions. ‘What the hell was that?’

 

Lexa’s eyes are wide, and the expression on Anya’s face is almost boarding panic. It is so unlike them, so unlike the emotions she has seen behind their masks before, that Clarke feels fear and adrenaline spike through her. ‘ _Pauna_ ’, Lexa breathes. 

 

Clarke barely registers Lexa slicing Quint’s leg open, because then the woman turns to her and screams, ‘run!’

 

They run. They run with the sound of Quint’s screams echoing behind them, with the sound of something crashing along behind them, something that sounds _huge_ and Clarke remembers that there is still so much about the Earth that she doesn't know. 

 

‘Don’t look back!’ 

 

Anya sounds like she’s speaking from very far away, not from right beside them, and Clarke sees Lexa look back. 

 

Lexa stops dead. ‘Anya!'

 

Clarke stops and spins, just in time to see a huge, mutant gorilla make a swipe at Anya that sends her flying through the air to slam against a tree, and there is some horrible finality about the way she hits the forest floor. Horror bubbles up in her throat as she watches the huge gorilla lumber slowly towards Anya, who lies still and unmoving among the fallen leaves. 

 

Clarke doesn’t hesitate. With Lexa’s horrified scream ringing in her ears, she lifts her gun, and fires. 

 

The roar that rends the air is ear splitting, and the gorilla spins to them, Anya forgotten. 

 

Adrenaline spikes. 

 

‘Run!’ 

 

Clarke grabs Lexa’s arm and pulls, and the two of them take off into the trees. Adrenaline and fear pumps through her veins, broken up with random, almost clinical thoughts. The knowledge that the gorilla will soon cover the distance between them. That they have to find cover. That Anya was there with them one minute, and leagues behind them in the next. That she must have stopped running. 

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

Long after Clarke has fallen asleep, slumped sideways in the dark, Lexa stays up and keeps watch. 

 

Clarke is… something of an enigma to her. She has shown her strength, shown that she is willing to do whatever it takes to save her people, to bring down the Mountain, to achieve peace. She’s shown that she will give up those she loves, and yet she still clings to the idea that she can’t. That she won’t have to. She still clings to the idea that love, despite how vulnerable it makes you, despite the things it has taken from her, is not weakness. That caring is not weakness. 

 

She remembers Anya’s words, _caring is inevitable_ , and closes her eyes briefly, raising her uninjured arm and pressing her hand against her face for a moment. She remembers the way Anya hit the tree and slid to the floor, the echoing silence, the way the woman’s name ripped from her own throat. She’d revealed weakness to Clarke, there, and in that room when she’d hissed, ‘ _you should have left me to die, Clarke. Now we’ll both die instead of one, and Anya’s sacrifice will have been for nothing’._

 

And Clarke had looked at her, concern furrowing her brow, and said, ‘ _if Anya can survive a bullet in the back, she can survive that’_ , and Lexa, despite the pain of her injury and the horrible reality of what just happened, had had the bizarre urge to laugh, because surely Clarke couldn’t be that naive. 

 

It wasn’t until later, sitting by the fire, letting Clarke check that her arm was properly secured, that she’d realised that Clarke hadn’t been naive, but desperate. She’d wanted to hold on to the hope that Anya hadn’t died out there, for them, to let them get away, because she’d seen the look on Clarke’s face, and recognised it as an emotion she’d indulged in once before, when Costia went missing. And that hope had been brutally torn away from her. She’d wanted to tell Clarke to confront reality now, but Clarke had shaken her head slightly, as if she’d known exactly what Lexa was going to say, and retreated to the other side of the fire. 

 

Lexa had said, _‘allowing yourself to hope will end in nothing but disappointment, Clarke’._

 

She hadn’t been able to see Clarke’s face, but her voice had been tight and angry, ‘ _hope is what keeps us going, Lexa’,_ she’d said, hands clenched on her thighs,  _‘hope for a better day than the one before. Hope that we can build something better. I can’t give up on hope. If I do… then what are we fighting for?'_

 

_What are we fighting for?_

 

The words haunt Lexa. She stares at Clarke’s face, bathed in a warm, orange glow, the shadows kept at bay, and she wonders at this trust she is being given. Clarke is trusting her to protect them if she has to, to remain awake as the hours drag by, and maybe more importantly, to not kill her in her sleep. The last one is not that surprisingly, really, because Clarke knows that Lexa needs her for this alliance to work, but still. Its a level of trust that is not easily given for Lexa, and Clarke gave it to her so easily, as if she didn’t realise the weight of it. 

 

_What are we fighting for?_

 

She could have reminded Clarke that they are fighting for their people, but she didn’t, because that was obvious. That hadn’t been what Clarke was asking. She could have said that they were fighting for peace, for any sort of peace, but maybe that would have proved Clarke’s point. Lexa fights because she must, because she has to protect her people, but she would be lying if she told Clarke that she’s never considered an after. A time after the Mountain, a time of peace, a time when her people could be safe. 

 

She’d never considered the possibility of true, lasting peace until Clarke killed a boy she cared for in order to ensure this alliance happened. She’d never considered a reality where the Mountain had fallen and her people were safe until she’d turned to find Anya standing in her tent, and the woman had told her about Clarke and she’d seen the conviction in her former mentor’s eyes. 

 

She’d started to think of _afterwards_ , of after the Mountain, of after the Reapers, of after the horror that her people had faced for decades. She’d started to think of a world for her people where war between the twelve clans and the ice nation was all they had to fear. 

 

She’d started to _hope,_ and that, that knowledge, had prevented her from throwing Clarke’s words in her face. Hope, she learnt long ago, is a terrible thing, but it hadn’t stopped her from thinking about later, from contemplating how to deal with the threat of the ice nation, once the Mountain Men had fallen, from thinking about how to make this alliance with the Sky people a permanent one, to prevent more wars. 

 

Her people have never known peace, not true peace, and she’d found herself wondering what that might be like. 

 

_What are we fighting for?_

 

A twig snaps. 

 

Lexa jerks out of her thoughts and sits up straight, alert and aware, scanning the trees, eyes straining to catch movement in the dark. There is a shadow between the trees, approaching their little campsite, a human figure, and Lexa snarls. 

 

Lexa stands smoothly, angling her injured side away from the approaching figure, and draws her knife. She will protect Clarke because she must, even if it costs her, and she’ll be sure to take the assailant down with her. 

 

And then the figure stumbles out of the darkness, and Lexa momentarily forgets about Clarke, forgets about her shoulder, the fact that her people need her, in the face of pure, overwhelming relief. ‘Anya?’ 

 

Anya looks pale in the firelight, a hand pressed to her side, and there is blood staining the left side of her face, seeping from a long cut following her hair line, but all that Lexa sees is the woman’s open look of relief, and the brightness of her smile. ‘Lexa’. 

 

Lexa stares, momentarily struck speechless, because Clarke was _right_. 

 

Anya crosses the space between them, and stops, keeping a distance that is respectful, but her hand is raised slightly, as if she wants to reach out to her, but won’t push. Lexa hesitates, because she knows its a bad idea, but it occurs to her that this is the first time she’s been alone with her former mentor without the weight of responsibility pressing in on all sides. It is the first time she’s felt like she can show her concern for her without worrying about the consequences, and staring at her, she forgets everything else for a moment except the overwhelming knowledge that Anya was ready to die for her, that she’d thought the woman dead,  _again._  

 

She reaches out with her uninjured arm and Anya meets her half way, and the embrace is more like a rough clasp of two bodies, awkward and jarring, and she hears Anya hiss as she grips her tightly, but for a moment, Lexa feels warmth wash over her, a surge of affection, and she remembers the last time she embraced Anya, all at once, with the ashes from Costia’s funeral pyre sickly sweet and heavy in the air around them, she remembers hiding her face against her former mentor’s thick hair and sobbing without making a sound, and she feels her throat tighten. 

 

Anya smells like blood and dirt and pine needles, and Lexa remembers running her finger’s through the woman’s hair and braiding it carefully, and swallows. 

 

It occurs to her how hypocritical she is being, giving into this weakness when she’d just criticised Clarke for the same. 

 

She steps back after a moment, reluctant to let this show of weakness continue, and yet longing to do just that. There is something about being with Clarke, about feeling the strength of the girl’s hand as she hauled her away from the _pauna_ , about the strange, half formed knowledge that she wants to deny, that Clarke’s weakness made her strong, that makes it easier and yet harder to give in to her own. 

 

Anya looks just as conflicted, strangely, her eyes are tired and pained, her face drawn and pale, and she sways slightly, her fingers lingering on Lexa’s arm, hovering over her injured shoulder, but there is a relieved smile filtering about her lips. ‘You were meant to get away unscathed, Lexa’. 

 

‘You should not have done that, Anya’. Lexa is surprised at the barely contained anger in her own voice, surprised at the very words, because they both know why Anya did what she did, and they both know that it was probably what saved her and Clarke. 

 

Anya raises an eyebrow. ‘I was trying to give you both a chance to escape, Lexa’. 

 

‘And you could have died’.

 

Anya blinks. She looks, for a split second, momentarily thrown by the vehemence of Lexa’s voice. She tilts her head to the side, the frown smooths away. Her smile is small, and strangely sad. ‘It was my choice, Lexa’. 

 

Lexa remembers Anya’s words to her after Gustus’ death, that it was his choice to try and protect her, even if it led to his death. She understands what Anya is saying, that it was her choice to try and protect her at what could have been the cost of her own life. 

 

What Lexa can’t tell her, what she can’t admit to herself, is a truth that scares her. When she turned and seen Anya standing there, waiting for the _pauna_ to bear down   on her, she’d experienced a surge of pure, ice cold terror. And it hadn’t been for herself. 

 

There was a reason why she sent Anya away from Polis. It wasn’t because she didn’t trust her. It was because Anya was a weakness that she couldn’t afford. Titus had confronted her about it one day, confronted her and told her that personal attachments would get her killed, and so she had done what was best, done what he’d suggested, and sent Anya away, without explanation. It had hurt, but it had been necessary, because Titus was right. 

 

The idea that Anya had died thinking that Lexa didn’t trust her, or worse, hated her, had hurt far more. 

 

Seeing Anya standing in her tent had felt almost indescribable. 

 

But she can’t voice any of that, because it is one thing to admit these thoughts, these weaknesses, to herself, and another thing entirely to admit them out loud. 

 

‘How were you injured?’ Anya breaks the silence, and Lexa is grateful for the chance in topic. Anya’s hand hovers over her shoulder, brow furrowed in concern, and Lexa cannot help but be incredulous, because Anya was the one who was thrown against a tree. She’d almost forgotten how much Anya put others before herself. 

 

When Lexa tells her about Clarke’s act, something softens around the woman’s eyes, and she laughs dryly before she stops, a grimace twisting her expression. ‘I should not…’ she whines, sucks in a sharp breath, ‘be surprised that she wouldn’t let you die’. 

 

‘She should have. If we’d both died, this alliance would have crumbled’. She doesn’t repeat the words she threw at Clarke, that Anya’s sacrifice would have been for nothing, because she knows that Anya would give her an incredulous look, and they’d start that argument again. 

 

Anya’s frown deepens, and she stares down at Lexa, her eyes shadowed, the lines of her cheekbones sharp and severe. Despite the harsh look, the corner of her mouth is ticked down, and Lexa thinks that the pain in the woman’s expression isn’t just because of her injury. It is a little startling, but everything about them and this is exposed and raw and vulnerable. And Lexa knows how dangerous it is, giving into affection, into weakness, but she’s _missed_ Anya, has only just let herself accept that, and today marks the second time in less than a month that she’d believed her former mentor had died. 

 

It’s a danger, a terrible, glaring danger, but Lexa remembers Anya’s words, and thinks that maybe here, with the woman who is the closest thing she’s ever had to family, she can pretend that these little weaknesses will have no consequences. 

 

‘I won’t pretend to be upset that she didn’t’, Anya says dryly. She shifts slightly, and the shadows leap back from her face, revealing the softness around her eyes. 

 

‘Our people -’ 

 

‘Our people need you, Lexa’, Anya cuts across her, an action she would never have done if they weren’t alone for miles, with the lines between Commander and General forgotten, more like the people they used to be, in a simpler time. ‘Not the Commander. They need you. You’ve led us to peace. You’ve created this alliance. You have taken more steps towards peace than any other Commander in generations -’ 

 

‘You don’t have faith that my spirit will choose wisely?’

 

Anya is silent for a while. Then, ‘we might - we _will -_ defeat the Mountain Men, under your leadership. That has never been done. Our people… we don’t remember a life without that threat. Perhaps, if you died, the next Commander would be just as wise. Perhaps not. You are marked apart by who _you_ are. So… I have faith in _you_ , Lexa. That is enough’. 

 

Lexa stares at her, unable to hide her surprise. Anya has never spoken like that before. Anya expresses how she feels through touch, through looks, never through words. At least, not to this extent. And her words… Lexa swallows hard. She almost sounds proud, and Lexa remembers how things used to be between them, before she became the Commander, before Costia’s death, before she shut the woman out of her life. Things are different now, but Anya’s presence is so familiar that she almost longs to shift closer to her, like they used to. She remembers that she would sit beside Anya and sometimes the woman would ruffle her hair, in a deliberate attempt to mess up her braids, and sometimes, when it was dark and they were tired and on the edges of sleep, Anya would drape an arm around her shoulders lazily, and pretend not to notice when Lexa leaned into her. 

 

Anya looks exhausted now, her eyes dropping, and Lexa says, ‘were you badly injured?’

 

Anya shakes her head. ‘Its just bruising, Lexa’. 

 

Lexa narrows her eyes, recognising the dismissal as a deflection. ‘Clarke will look at it in the morning before we leave’. 

 

‘Thats not -’

 

‘ _Onya’,_ Lexa means to snap, to make it an order, but it sounds almost like a plea. 

 

Anya seems to sag. ‘Fine’, she grunts, and Lexa almost smiles. Anya is as stubborn as ever. 

 

‘Get some sleep, Anya. Its still my watch. I’ll wake you when its over’. 

 

Something glimmers in Anya’s eyes, and her half smile looks soft in the firelight. Lexa wonders if the woman is thinking about how familiar this is, about all the times they took shifts as mentor and second, and her lips quirk at the thought. 

 

She watches Anya manoeuvre herself carefully, clearly in pain, clearly trying to hide it, until she’s lying on her uninjured side, facing away from her. Lexa stares at the back of the woman’s head, and feels all amusement drain from her. 

 

She wants to say, _I’m glad you didn’t die,_ but admitting that weakness even to herself feels dangerous, and she doesn’t know what would happen if she said it out loud, doesn’t know if it would be like unleashing the flood gates on all the things she cannot say. So all she says is,  _‘reshop, Onya’_. 

 

She wonders if she imagines the amusement in Anya’s voice when she replies,  _‘reshop, heda’,_ and she wonders if Anya is thinking about how they used to say goodnight, and how Anya would knock the back of her head and mess up her hair, only to braid it again carefully, and they’d both pretend not to recognise how affectionate the gesture was. 

 

She sits there deep into the night, long past her watch, looking between Clarke and Anya, between the woman who asked her what they had if they gave up on hope, and the woman who told her that caring is inevitable, and to let it make her strong. 

 

She thinks that if this incident has proven anything, its that Anya was right. She does care. She’s just going to have to find some way of dealing with that. 

 

The question she faces now is simple, but it has no easy answer. 

 

Does she fight it, or does she embrace it?

 

_What are we fighting for?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back I'm sorry for my absence I'm still working on this even though its been ages i hope everyones still with me 
> 
> okay so this is a much shorter chapter than it was originally going to be but after THAT EPISODE i had to just get something out there so hopefully this is okay
> 
> literally the only good thing to come of that episode for me is that it appears to have kickstarted my writing again. i guess i tend to get mad when my favourite characters are killed off in ridiculous ways THEY DESERVED BETTER
> 
> so I've tried my hand at a scene from Lexa's perspective which wasn't planned for this chapter but it helped me get it written and yeah there is a lot of positive affirmation for her because she deserved so much better. i think its all in character, but like a lot of people, I'm a bit all over the place right now. 
> 
> as always, suggestions, scenes/things wanted, are welcome :)


	10. Chapter 10

 

Anya takes pity on Indra’s Sky girl second when the older woman side steps the girl’s frantic lunge, turns, and raps the pommel of her sword against the base of her spine, and sends her straight into the dirt at her feet. 

 

Anya knows from experience just how much that particular move can hurt, and humiliate. She also knows how angry and frustrated Indra is at Clarke and her people’s decision to let the guard live, and so her patience is worn thin. 

 

So when Indra walks away with a brief,  _‘take a break’,_ and Octavia flops down and puts her head in her hands, Anya rises from the other side of the training field to join her. 

 

_‘You are too angry, Octavia of the Sky People’._

Octavia looks up at her sharply. She doesn’t look startled by her sudden appearance, but she seems to bristle. ‘ _Aren’t we all angry?’_ she snaps, and Anya wonders whether the girl thinks that she disapproves of Indra’s decision to take her as a second. 

 

She raises an eyebrow. The girl’s accent could be better, but its a vast improvement from Clarke’s.  _‘Lincoln has taught you well, I see’,_ she says, watching as the irritated look drains from the girl’s expression at her words. She looks rather startled by the statement. Anya tilts her head, intrigued despite herself by this girl who fought so hard to be accepted by Anya’s people, and who is still fighting.  _‘You will not be victorious against Indra’._  


Octavia frowns.  _‘So I’m too angry, and I can’t win. Are you saying that…’_ she pauses, searching for the words, and Anya cuts across her to save her the trouble. 

 

_‘You must separate the two. Anger is a powerful weapon. You must channel it. Use it. But not here. Not in training. You are too focused on proving yourself, but you do not need to. You think that beating Indra will do that, but you cannot, and you will not. You must let her teach you’._

Octavia blinks, slightly thrown. ‘ _So just… let her beat me?’_  


Anya sighs heavily, unable to hide her exasperation at having to explain herself further.  _‘No. Focus on what she is teaching you. The moves. The footwork. How to hold your blade. She may…’_ Anya pauses, recalling the phrase Clarke used, and says slowly, ‘beat you into the ground, but you will learn’. 

 

Octavia smiles at the slightly uncertain tone to the woman’s voice, as if she’s unsure of the English phrase. She’s not sure why Anya has chosen to sit by her, and to give her this advice, but she wants to learn. She wants to become like them, a warrior, strong and proud of who they are, sure of their place within their people, so this is advice she won’t throw away. ‘Why did you… why say that I don’t need to prove myself?’

 

Anya raises an eyebrow, as if she’s surprised that Octavia needs to ask that question, needs the clarification. ‘Indra has not taken a second in years. If she decided to train you, a Sky Person, you must have done something quite impressive’. 

 

Octavia stares, absorbing the woman’s words, because even if she states them like a fact, they feel good. They feel like praise. And even if that’s not what Anya intended, it is nice. She holds onto that for a second, before scepticism creeps in. ‘Why are you being so nice,  _Onya?’_  


Anya blinks. ‘I am not… nice’. 

 

‘Then what are you doing?’

 

Anya frowns. She stares at Octavia for a moment, an analysing, unreadable look that reminds Octavia strangely of Indra. Then she says, ‘Lincoln told me that you’ve spent most of your life in a cage, Octavia’. 

 

Octavia swallows, the pain of those years creeping up at the back of her mind, but she’s learnt (she’s still learning) how to push it aside and ignore it, and when she inhales deeply, exhaling through her mouth, she’s able to push the feelings and sensations away. She makes a mental note to ask Lincoln why he would tell Anya something so personal about her life, when he returns from the Mountain.  _When_ , not if. When. ‘What of it?’ she snaps. 

 

Anya’s expression does not soften, it is hard and unyielding, and again, Octavia is reminded of Indra. The woman says flatly, slowly, as if to make sure that she won’t have to repeat herself, ‘I can sympathise with the desire to prevent that from occurring again’. 

 

Octavia stares at her for a moment. She knows very little of Anya, has spent very little time interacting with her, but she remembers Clarke dragging her and Bellamy into the Medical tent, and seeing the woman lying there, pale and drawn, with bandages wrapped around her, so different from the last time she’d seen the woman. She remembers the feeling of horror and disgust that curled low in her stomach, a fear that tasted foul, when she heard what had happened to them, to the Grounders, and what would probably happen to their friends. Maybe Anya is one of the few people who can understand how she feels. So she inclines her head slightly, acknowledging that she understands what Anya is doing, and to her surprise, Anya returns the gesture. 

 

‘So, how do you know so much about the way Indra trains people?’

 

Anya does not smile at her, instead giving her a look that implies it should be obvious. ‘I was her second’. 

 

Octavia almost laughs, because it is the most obvious answer, and she’s surprised she didn’t suspect it. She can see Indra in Anya, in the hard masks and exasperated looks, in the way she holds herself, as if ready to leap into action at any moment. 

 

Indra appears, looming up beside Octavia, shifting from background to foreground so suddenly that Octavia can’t help wonder if the woman was actually there all along.  _‘Unless I am mistaken, Anya, Octavia is my second, not yours_ ’. 

 

Octavia blinks. There is something in Indra’s tone that she hasn’t heard before. It is not fondness exactly, not quite affection, but its close. A hint of amusement, perhaps, that colours her usually unreadable expression. Anya stands smoothly, the corner of her mouth quirked in what might pass as a smile. Octavia looks between them, fascinated as she always is to learn more of the Grounders, of their ways, of their interrelations, at this side of them that she knew existed because she’d seen it in Lincoln. 

 

_‘I was just warning her, Indra. She may not know what she’s got herself into’._

 

Indra scoffs.  _‘The girl practically begged’._ She glances at Octavia, head tilted slightly.  _‘But she has the spirit of a warrior. Potential that I would not see squandered’._  


  
_‘I don’t doubt it_ ’, says Anya, and Octavia glances at her, trying to read from her expression what her missing vocabulary keeps hidden.  _‘You don’t take on a second lightly’._  


Indra glances at Octavia, and then back at Anya. Something in her gaze sharpens.  _‘When was the last time you sparred with someone who could match your skill, Anya?’_  


Something sparks in Anya’s eyes, a glint that looks like a challenge.  _‘Not since before the Mountain’._  


Indra tilts her head towards the training area.  _‘Come’._  


Anya smiles, a slow curl of her lips, and she seems to stand just a bit taller. Indra turns and walks away, and Anya glances at Octavia, and raises her eyebrows.  _‘Come, Sky girl. You might learn something_ ’. 

 

Octavia almost rolls her eyes, but she stands anyway. 

 

Indra steps away from Anya and draws her weapon, twirling it once before bringing it to rest down by her side, a deceivingly relaxed position that, as Octavia has already learnt the hard way, does not mean that the woman is not ready. Anya takes several steps back, putting a good distance between them, and draws her swords. She doesn’t twirl them, but holds them out to her sides, one lifted slightly above the other, the tips tilted outwards. It leaves her body exposed, but Octavia thinks that might be the point. 

 

‘Whats going on?’ Clarke steps up beside her, frowning as her eyes track between the two women. 

 

‘What does it look like?’ 

 

Clarke’s frown deepens, and she sighs. ‘You’d think that Anya would try and give herself time to recover, rather than continuously aggravating her wound’.

 

Octavia raises an eyebrow. She hadn’t missed the constant anxious glances her friend had thrown the woman as they travelled from TonDC. She’d heard all about the  _pauna,_ and that Anya had let herself get hit in order to buy Clarke and Lexa time. Indra’s expression had been an odd one when she found out, a mix between what might have been exasperation and pride. Anya had ridden sitting tall and strong, a hand pressed to her side, but otherwise, she hadn’t let any sign of her injury show. ‘You’re telling me that all that mutant gorilla managed to do was aggravate her injury?’

 

Clarke smiles, but its tight and anxious. ‘She was lucky. Dislocated shoulder from when she hit the tree, bruised ribs.  _Lots_  of bruising and lacerations. But yeah, its more the fact that she got shot and nearly died and should be recuperating’.

 

Octavia smiles slightly. ‘They’re Grounders, Clarke. We’re at war. Its what they do’.

 

Once, she might have had to explain further. Once, she mightn’t have really understood herself. But Clarke only sighs, and shakes her head. ‘Yeah. I know’. 

 

  
_‘Octavia’,_ Indra calls out, her eyes still fixed on Anya. Neither of them have moved.  _‘Pay attention_ ’. 

 

And then Indra moves. Anya blocks her lunge by knocking her sword aside, and Octavia thinks that was the point of her stance, forcing Indra to go for the open expanse of her body, to easily push it aside, and Indra leaps back to avoid Anya’s retaliation, her long coat sending a spray of dust into the air as it sweeps around her. Anya follows her, and they exchange a flurry of blows before Indra steps in close and wraps the pommel of her sword sharply against Anya’s ribs. 

 

There is a knowing glint to Indra’s eyes as she leaps back.  _‘That will teach you to let a pauna catch you’._  


Anya’s laugh is short and a little strained, but she only rolls her shoulder and drops back into her stance, twirling her blades. Octavia hears Clarke swallow heavily, and knows that her friend is thinking of the woman’s injury, but she looks at the slant of Anya’s smile, the subtle shift in her stance as Indra lunges at her again, and thinks that Clarke need not worry. This is what they are. They are warriors. She thinks that maybe this is what Anya needs. Maybe Indra knew that too. 

 

Anya parries Indra’s lunge, and they exchange a number of fierce blows before they part again.  _‘_ _You’re not my teacher anymore, Indra’._  


 

Indra scoffs.  _‘And yet, you still have so much to learn’._  


Anya moves, and there is still part of Octavia that marvels at just how fast the Grounders can move. The strength gathered behind Anya’s blows is tightly contained, sharp bursts of movement and energy that Indra skilfully parries, until Anya ducks low, spins behind her, and slaps the flat of her blade against Indra’s back, and as she spins away, she  _laughs_ , a short, fierce sound. Octavia releases a sharp breath, and one of the Grounders standing behind her lets out a long, low whistle. She glances at him, and is slightly surprised to see that the two women have attracted a number of onlookers. Many of the warriors who were training beside Indra and Octavia have stopped to watch, and even though most of them aren’t smiling, Octavia can  _feel_ the amusement in the air. 

 

‘Why do they all look so impressed?’ 

 

Raven has joined them, her arms folded, standing beside Clarke but far enough away that there is a noticeable distance between them. Octavia’s heart aches for her friends, and she swallows tightly. She shrugs slightly. ‘It was a good move’. 

 

‘It is not that,  _Okteivia kom Skaikru_ ’. The man who whistled doesn’t take his eyes off the duel, but he is smiling, a wide grin that is startlingly white against his dark skin. ‘Indra is one of our greatest warriors. We rarely see her evenly matched’. 

 

And indeed, despite Anya’s injury, the back and forth between them continues without either of them really gaining the upper hand. The blows they do land are an example of how skilled they are, because they do not strike each with the edges of their blades, and Octavia knows how much control they must exert to achieve that. Octavia looks away from them, at the Grounders who have surrounded them in a circle, at the smiles in their eyes, and feels such an intense sense of belonging, a warm feeling that starts in her chest and spreads to the tips of her fingers, that she grins, wide and open and for a moment, she is back at the drop step, taking her first steps on the ground, full of joy and hope that she might have found a place to belong. She thinks that here, among the Grounders, she might have finally found it. 

 

She wonders what Clarke and Raven see. Clarke, she knows, sees allies. She sees a potential peace, and a way to save their people. She glances at her, and sees that she’s watching with a slight furrow between her brows, undoubtedly worried for Anya’s injury, but she also seems to be trying to follow the motions, and Octavia remembers that Anya is meant to be training her. She wonders if Raven still sees enemies. Still sees the people who they accidentally went to war with, who demanded Finn’s life, who tied her to a tree and cut into her skin for a crime that wasn’t hers, who have caused events that have taken so much from her. She wouldn’t blame her friend if she did. 

 

But she looks at Raven, expecting to see hostility, dislike, maybe even the anger that boiled in her friend’s eyes for so long after Finn’s death. She doesn’t. Instead, she sees that Raven is watching the fight with a very… odd expression. Her hands are clenched on her upper arms, and her eyes are slightly widened. As Octavia watches, Raven swallows and licks her lips and yeah, that is  _definitely_ not what Octavia was expecting to see. 

 

She is so distracted that she doesn’t notice that the duel has ended until Indra appears by her side. The older woman gives Octavia an almost expectant look.  _‘I hope you were paying attention’._  


Octavia nods instantly.  _‘I was, Indra’._  


_‘Good. I expect you to anticipate more next time’._

Indra steps back, moving to converse with the man who whistled, and Octavia suppresses a groan. She turns to Anya as the woman approaches, and says, ‘you might have made it worse for me, you know’. 

 

Anya shrugs, and that smile is still lingering about her mouth.  _‘Never waste an opportunity to learn, Octavia of the Sky People. That is one of Indra’s rules’._  


_‘Before or after, 'never question me’?’_

Anya’s eyes gleam with mirth, and Octavia wonders at this, at this strange acceptance from Indra’s former second, rather than the hostility she’s received from other Grounders who believe she does not belong. She wonders if its come from a simply understanding of her motives, even if Anya does not know the full story.

 

Anya turns her attention to Clarke.  _‘Heya, Klark’._ She glances at Raven.  _‘Reivon. Chit yu gaf?’_  


 

Clarke’s brow furrows in concentration, and Octavia suppresses a smile of amusement. She knows from experience exactly what Clarke is going through, and she wonders how many words Anya has thrown at her in their short time together. ‘The umm…  _maunon… osir fis em op’._  


Anya shakes her head slightly, patient despite Clarke’s awful accent. ‘Almost.  _Oso dom fis em op’._  


Clarke sighs, clearly a little frustrated. Raven raises an eyebrow. ‘Well now I just feel excluded’. 

 

Octavia laughs, the excitement and joy still thrumming through her veins. ‘Sorry, Raven. But you never know, they might teach you. Apparently its getting easier to be accepted as a second than it was when I tried’. She gives Clarke a pointed look. 

 

Clarke makes a face. ‘I’m not a second. Lexa decided my skills were ‘lacking’’. 

 

‘That is a nice way of saying it’. Anya isn’t smiling anymore, but her eyes are still glinting with amusement. 

 

Clarke rolls her eyes, and Octavia feels a lightness in her chest at seeing her and Raven standing so close together, without the hostility and pain that is usually an almost physical force between them. ‘Anyway, I came to tell you that the guard from Mount Weather woke up. We want to question him, and I thought you and Indra might want to be there’. 

 

Anya shakes her head, any amusement fading. She turns her head and calls,  _‘Indra, the Mountain Man woke up. Shall we join them for questioning?’_  


Indra makes a noncommittal grunt, but Anya turns back to them and says, ‘we’ll come. But Indra is right. You won’t get anything out of him’. 

 

Clarke shrugs. ‘We can only try’. 

 

A heaviness has settled on their shoulders at the reminder of the war they are waging, the reality that they are facing, and Raven shifts away from Clarke, stepping back from them. ‘I should get back to work’, she says, and Octavia almost reaches for her, but then Raven turns her back and walks away. Octavia wonders if her friend knows that she’s walking towards the Medical tent, not towards her work space. 

 

Clarke stares after their friend, sorrow and regret heavy in her eyes. Anya’s expression has hardened, the same unreadable mask that Octavia is learning to wear, and starts to move away, brushing her hand over Clarke’s shoulder as she goes. Clarke takes a deep breath, and seems to lock her emotions away. She nods at Octavia, and then turns to walk beside Anya. Indra walks past Octavia a second later, giving her a look that implies she should get back to her training. 

 

Octavia watches them walk away. She wonders if Clarke realises that when she does that, when she straightens her spine and squares her shoulders, when she locks away her emotions, when she dons a mask, she resembles the Grounders.  

 

She thinks that perhaps their people are becoming more like each other than anyone else seems to realise. And despite how the Arkers might protest, she thinks its a good thing. This alliance needs to last past their victory over the Mountain, it  _has to_ , because Octavia dreads the day she might be forced to choose between the world she’s finding a place in, a world with Lincoln by her side and cages a distant memory, and the world that has never wanted her, but has Raven and Clarke and Bellamy. 

 

It is a choice that Octavia desperately hopes she’ll never have to make. She doesn’t know if she could, anymore. 

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

Clarke finds her mother and Kane talking in low voices outside the guard’s cage, and the atmosphere is heavy and thick with tension and frustration. They looks up as she approaches, and Clarke slows her pace. She wonders briefly, as she often has since they came to the ground, at the change between them. She wonders if they realise how close they are standing. 

 

‘Has he said anything?’

 

‘No, not yet’. Kane looks as frustrated as Clarke feels at his words. 

 

Abby shrugs, and repeats similar words from earlier, but this time she sounds far less sure. ‘We were waiting for you, so we he doesn’t know that we saved his life. He might, when we tell him’. 

 

‘He won’t’. 

 

Clarke jumps at Anya’s voice. The woman hasn’t spoken since they turned the corner onto the corridor, since they saw the man contained behind Raven’s latest efforts, and now that she looks at her, what she sees startles her. Anya stares across the distance at the man with barely contained fury, her hands clenched tightly at her sides, as if she’s physically restraining from launching herself at the cage. There is something dark in her eyes, and her lips are pressed into a thin line. She looks almost pained, and Clarke doesn’t think its because of her recent injuries. Indra shifts slightly, her attention sharpening on the other woman, but she doesn’t speak. She seems to be waiting for Anya to say more.

 

Clarke takes a slow step forward, raising her hand slightly. ‘Anya?’

 

There is a muscle jumping in her jaw. ‘He won’t talk because you extended him a mercy’. 

 

Kane speaks up from behind them. ‘Do you recognise him?’

 

Something flashes in Anya’s eyes, and a tremor runs through her. ‘He should be dead’, she snarls, ‘you should have let him die’. 

 

Clarke swallows. She wants to steer the woman from the corridor, because the air is thick with the rage rolling off her in waves, building around her, and Clarke wants to get the woman out and away from the others before the storm brewing inside her explodes. ‘Anya’, she says loudly, and Anya tears her gaze away from the man to look at her, ‘who is he?’

 

Anya’s jaw works. She is silent, staring at the man, until Indra steps closer, turning so that she’s standing partially in front of Anya, her back turned to them.  _‘Onya, what do you know?'_  


 

Anya takes a deep breath and says evenly,  _‘he was one of the guards that sometimes patrolled our cages’,_ and even though Clarke doesn’t recognise most of the words, she thinks she can guess.  _‘Some of them liked to torment our people. He was one of them’._ She grits her teeth, and she looks poised to spring, to lunge, and Clarke wonders why the woman is restraining herself, if she doesn’t agree with their methods. ‘ _Do you remember Axel?’_  


A slight frown furrows Indra’s brow, and she nods slightly. Clarke looks back and forth between them, trying to glean anything from what is being said, and the words she does recognise do not paint a nice picture. Anya takes a deep breath.  _‘They dragged him out of his cage one day and beat him to death simply to show us that they were in charge. To show us that we were expendable, even if they needed our blood’._  


Indra snarls, and the knife in her hand rises. Clarke extends a hand, even though she has no intention of touching the woman. ‘Indra’, she says quickly, looking between them, wishing her lessons had progressed further. ‘We need to question him’. She looks at Anya then, and speaks to both of them. ‘We need all the information we can get’. 

 

‘He won’t talk’, Anya snaps, looking at her, and there is something horrible in her eyes, a truth about the Mountain that only the Grounders could’ve known, and Clarke realises just how little she knows about what the Grounders have been through. ‘You think that they have your morals, Clarke. They do not. You should know that by now’. 

 

‘We are better than these people, Anya’. 

 

Anya scoffs suddenly, and spins away from them, her shoulders tense.  _‘Leave it, Indra. They won’t relent’._  


Indra shakes her head. ‘You people are so weak’, she spits, disdain and disgust, looking between them.  _‘Come, Onya’._  


‘Anya -’ Clarke almost reaches for her, because she’s become used to having Anya on her side, in a way, has become used to working with her, towards the same goal, and she doesn’t like the look Anya gave her, as if she’d expected better of her. 

 

Anya spins to look at her, and yeah, that looks like disappointment, like frustration, behind the anger that is not directed at her. The woman stares at her for a long moment, before saying, ‘if you knew what he, what they had done, then -’ 

 

‘Then tell me, Anya. Tell me why we should just kill him instead of trying to get information from him’. 

 

Anya stares at her for a long time, and Clarke can see Indra standing behind the woman, watching the exchange with slightly narrowed eyes, like she’s analysing, waiting to see what Anya will do. Abby watches from a distance, silent and observant, watching as her daughter attempts to reason with the woman who once lay bleeding out on her exam table. Finally, Anya speaks, and her voice is hard and unforgiving. ‘When your people are the ones being harvested for blood, you’ll understand, Clarke’.

 

She turns away again, and as she and Indra begin to walk away, Clarke says, ‘don’t you want to try and question him?’

 

‘You don’t want me here’, Anya doesn’t look back, and for some reason, it hurts. 

 

Clarke thinks that she gets it, gets that Anya is saying that the moment she works out how to kill the man through that glass, she will, and they won’t be able to stand in her way. Clarke watches Anya walk away, and remembers how she found her, in that cage, remembers how the other Grounders had shrunk away from her when she first entered the room, before they seemed to realise that she wasn’t a guard. She turns to look at the man sitting in the quarantined area, smirking, as if he’s amused by the display, and tries to quell a surge of anger. She wonders, for the first time, what else happened in the Mountain that she didn’t see with her own eyes.

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

Raven nearly has a heart attack when she finds a stranger in her workspace. 

 

Her heart leaps into her throat, and for a moment all she registers is the typical Grounder garb, the weapons, the dark shape of a figure that is completely out of place in her space. 

 

And then she recognises the tall, lean figure, and the tension eases from her shoulders, and she lets her hand drop from the knife at her hip. It had felt weird for a while, walking around with its weight as a constant companion, but she’s hated how defenceless her leg makes her feel, and since her return from the camp, she’s kept it on her. 

 

Despite the alliance, despite the insistence from Clarke that they need to trust the Grounders, she thinks it will take a while for her to quell the instinctive fight or flight reaction that she learnt was so necessary to survive when she originally came down to the ground. 

 

They might not be the enemy anymore, but they were once, and Raven has scars, both mental and physical, to prove it. 

 

But this is Anya, the Grounder who believed her over Raven’s own people, who apologised for her people’s actions. This is Anya, who has shown her little, telling kindnesses, who has let her see past her mask, even if its just to another, subtly different mask. 

 

‘You know’, she says, watching the way Anya seems to stand impossibly straighter at the sound of her voice, ‘among our people its considered polite to ask before rummaging through another person’s possessions’. 

 

Anya doesn’t respond, and after a moment, Raven feels the smile slip from her face. She takes a step forward, first one, then another, until her feet take her to Anya’s side, and she’s finally able to look at her. Any residue humour drains from her when she sees the woman’s face. 

 

She cannot say exactly what it is that alarms her about Anya’s expression. It is as smooth as polished marble, as unreadable as it was when Raven first gazed up at her from her hidden position among the bushes, the gun heavy in her hand, all those weeks ago, and it is so far from how she’d looked out on the training ground. She hasn’t seen Anya look this expressionless since that day, all sharp edges and jutting jaw. Maybe its that in itself, the lack of any emotion, of any tell, that makes her feel like there is something very wrong.

 

There is something about hiding your own pain for so long that allows you to recognise it in others, no matter how efficient their masks are. 

 

She still doesn’t understand Anya, doesn’t understand her reasoning or why she acts the way she does towards her, but she’s become used to being able to read  _something,_ and even back then on the bridge, she could see anger, because Anya seemed to radiate the emotion, even if her expression and given away little more than irritation. 

 

There is nothing, now. It is the most perfect, disturbing mask Raven has ever seen, and a chill runs through her, because it does tell her something. It tells her that whatever Anya is feeling is something that she doesn’t want anyone to see. 

 

It is a strange thought, the idea that she can tell that there is something wrong because she can’t read the woman. 

 

‘Anya?’

 

Anya doesn’t look at her, but Raven feels her attention shift. Despite the fact that the woman hasn’t reacted to her presence, didn’t seem to react to her voice, Raven knows that if she’d been a threat, she’d probably be dead. 

 

She doesn’t know what to say. They aren’t friends. She barely knows the woman. The things she does know, the things she herself feels, create a strange, complicated image that she’s almost afraid to look at too closely, but comfort is not something she can give. She wouldn’t know how. She doesn’t even know if she’d want to risk trying. 

 

And so Raven sits down in the seat next to the woman, and gets back to work. She keeps her hands busy, but she’s hyper aware of Anya standing immobile beside her, and she lets herself check the woman for physical signs out of the corner of her eye. Anya’s hands are pressed against the table top, the tips of her fingers stark white, and despite the noise Raven cannot help making, she can hear the deliberate, slow rhythm of the woman’s breathing. 

 

Having something to focus on, the objects in her hands, the things she’s trying to build, combined with Anya’s silent, steady presence, is strangely grounding. She finds that when thoughts of Finn do come, as they always do, she’s able to push them aside, to breathe through the painful emotions. Her work becomes a focus, and Anya’s presence becomes a strange, unexpected anchor. She doesn’t drift. 

 

And then Anya takes a deep breath, a break in the steady rhythm, and lets it out slowly. She says, ‘what are you building?’ and her voice is flat, disinterested, but its something. 

 

‘Things to help us beat Mount Weather’, Raven reaches for more scrap, shaking her head slightly at the twisted metal, ‘most of this is useless scrap, but I can make something of it’. She looks up at Anya and smiles. ‘I’ve never given up on a challenge before’. 

 

The corner of Anya’s mouth quirks, very slightly, and Raven lets out a breath she hadn’t been aware of holding. Anya’s expression is still unreadable, but that terrible, blank mask is gone, and Raven is glad for it. The total lack of emotion had given her nothing to bounce off, nothing to interpret. Anya could’ve decided to slit her throat there and then and Raven wouldn’t have seen it coming. She could’ve passed out without a sound and Raven probably wouldn’t have realised until she hit the floor. 

 

‘What is this?’ 

 

Raven glances down at Anya’s hands, to see that she’s holding the beacon that Clarke asked her to repair, their defence against the Reapers. ‘Its a sound beacon’, she says, watching Anya turn it over and over in her hands. She can see scars scattered over the woman’s knuckles, thin, pale marks, and she remembers the strength in those hands as they helped her down from the tree. Raven blinks, realising that she’s stopped talking, watching the continuous spin of the object in Anya’s hands. ‘Clarke asked me to repair it. The Reapers are adverse to the sound’. 

 

The beacon stops spinning, and Anya’s knuckles whiten. Raven glances up quickly, and sees a dark look of anger. ‘You’re trying to find a way to take them out without killing them?’

 

‘Now that we know that they can be turned back, yeah’. 

 

The frown deepens, and Raven catches sight of something… sad in Anya’s eyes. When Anya says nothing, Raven decides to push. ‘Your people had no idea? That they could be turned back?’

 

The corners of Anya’s mouth tighten, and she looks at Raven in an almost searching way, as if trying to decide whether she is being genuinely curious, or accusing. Finally she says, ‘no. We did not… our people knew nothing of this technique Clarke called… CPR?’ She shrugs slightly, and Raven doesn’t miss that she doesn’t move her right shoulder. ‘Any attempts to restore our people to their former selves ended in violence. The Reaper would either die, or they’d break free, and slaughter those attempting to fix them, before they were put down’. Her voice has tightened, and Raven realises that perhaps her simple question hit a very personal nerve. Anya’s frown deepens, and her hands tighten on the beacon. ‘We taught ourselves to show them no mercy, no matter whose face they wore’. 

 

Raven isn’t really sure what to say to that. She thinks, from the little that Anya is letting her see, because she’s known since their conversation in that tent that whatever she can see is what she is allowed to, that Anya knew someone who became a Reaper. Knew, and killed. But then again, she thinks, its not a hard conclusion to reach. She remembers meeting Anya in the Medical tent, so long ago, and the scorn in Anya’s voice when Raven had said that she’d have to deal with cold water. Hardship is part of life on the ground. She’s known that for a while. Loss, it seems, comes hand in hand with it. They do what they must to survive, but sometimes those things break down pieces of you, tear them up and shove them aside. 

 

She remembers the way Anya looked at her in the tent, and the way she’d said  _I thought you’d suffered enough_ , and wonders whether Anya understood exactly how she was feeling, because once, she’d felt the same. 

 

‘Clarke believes that we can change things’, Raven can hear the exasperation in her own voice, the irritation and pain, because she can’t hear Clarke talk about the alliance and how much they need it without remembering what they’ve sacrificed to get here, ‘and if she’s right…’ she trails off, because really, she doesn’t know what she’s trying to say, but the skin around Anya’s mouth softens, and some of the tension seems to ease from her stance. 

 

‘We will take the Mountain’, says Anya, and she sounds so convinced, so sure of their victory, that Raven allows herself to believe her, just for a moment. Maybe if she focuses on that, the  _will_ , rather than the  _might_ , the things she’s lost won’t hurt as much. 

 

It is odd, how easy it is to be around Anya. Or maybe its not. Maybe she shouldn’t be surprised that she finds it easy, when Anya was the one who believed her, the one who came to her and told her that she’d suffered enough, despite the fact that they were relative strangers. Maybe its not a surprise, because Anya doesn’t seem to want anything from her. It is a welcoming change from the people Raven spends her day around. From Wick, whose motive is undisguised when he looks at her, to Clarke, who looks at her like she wants her forgiveness but knows she can’t ask for it, to everyone who knows that she has a right to feel the way she does, but expects her to move past it because they need her to. 

 

‘I didn’t mean to intrude’, Anya says suddenly, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. 

 

Raven looks up at her again, raising her eyebrows. ‘What were you doing, then?’ she asks, because she doesn’t want to tell the woman that her presence doesn’t bother her. 

 

Anya seems to hesitate. Her expression hardens again, but Raven recognises that the anger in her eyes seems to be directed at something else. ‘That man we brought in. Clarke wanted to question him. I wanted him dead’. Her jaw clenches. ‘Clarke might be right about him having useful information, but she’s a fool to think that he’d give it to them willingly’. 

 

‘And you didn’t want to be there to question him?’

 

‘I recognise his usefulness, but the longer I spend in his presence, the more likely I am to kill him’. There is something dark in Anya’s eyes, and Raven recognises it as a similar look to the one she wore just after the Mountain. It is haunted, hollow, speaking of a trauma that even her anger can’t hide. ‘So I removed myself from the situation’. 

 

Raven hesitates. She’s curious, despite herself, and its always been in her nature to push. ‘I know he’s from the Mountain -’ 

 

‘Its not just that he’s from the Mountain’. 

 

Raven blinks, taken aback more by the fact that Anya is giving her this information than the venom in her voice. ‘Then what is it?’

 

Anya’s expression hardens to stone, and Raven watches a muscle jump in her jaw. Her hands clench on the beacon again, and Raven wonders whether she should take it from her, incase she breaks it. Her frown deepens. They have no idea what happened to the Grounders in that Mountain, not aside from what Clarke told them, and Clarke wasn’t among those cages for very long. It occurs to her that there must be more,  _of course_ there must be more, and if Anya’s prolonged silence is anything to go by, it is not an easy thing to recall. She half reaches out, but lets her hand drop to the table when the woman’s eyes snap to her, as if startled by the movement. She sighs. ‘You don’t have to tell me, Anya’. 

 

Anya frowns faintly, her eyes flicking between Raven’s, searching her face, and Raven has absolutely no idea what she’s looking for. Anya looks away again, and says tightly, ‘the Mountain Men have an even lower opinion of my people than yours’. 

 

Raven doesn’t know what to say to that, so she remains silent, waiting for Anya to continue. The woman takes a deep breath, and when she lets it out, her mask rises, and Raven is struck again by just how much Anya was letting her see, not that she can’t read anything. She speaks flatly, sharply, spitting out the words like they taste foul. ‘They see us as animals, and so they harvest us. We always knew that. But I discovered that… many of them believed that our ability to walk on the ground is undeserved. They hate us for that. Not because we’ve killed their people, like you, but because we exist. Some of them - of the guards - liked to… taunt us, in those cages. There were a few who… preferred it when we resisted. They had an excuse to hurt us. I… some of us learnt that the hard way’. 

 

Raven looks up at Anya then, really looks at her, tries to see past the war paint and dirt, tries to see past the mask, and Anya stares back at her, and as she stares, something shifts. Raven sees anger and sorrow and pain, and an old, old grief that calls to something in Raven’s soul, to the part of her that aches with Finn’s loss, and Raven feels something in her chest tighten. She doesn’t know what to say, or what to do, because she barely knows Anya, and she might understand the horrible, emptying reality of loss, but she can only imagine what it was like in the Mountain. 

 

There is part of her that wants to say that they’ll take the Mountain, they will, because they have to, because if they don’t, all of this will have been for nothing. But she is not like Clarke, and telling herself that they can, and they will, every day since Finn’s death, has not helped. It does not lessen the hollow ache in her chest. She pushes on because if she doesn’t, all of this will have been for nothing. But the words taste like ashes in her mouth, and they would be worth just as much if she said them aloud, because she doesn’t doubt that Anya has the same mantra repeating over and over in her head, and maybe it is worth just as much. 

 

Instead, she stands, and reaches for the beacon. Anya opens her hands, and Raven’s fingers curl against her palms. They are warm and callused, and Raven imagines she can feel the strength in those hands. The touch sends a jolt through her, and it occurs to Raven that it is the first time she has really initiated contact with someone else since Finn’s death. She’s accepted contact, Octavia’s hand on her shoulder, Bellamy’s support at her back, Abby’s fingers on her own, touches that are not unwelcome, that can be comforting, brief flashes of warmth that chase away the hollow cold that sometimes creeps up in her bones. She pulls away almost immediately, but somehow, despite the mundane nature of the gesture, despite the fact that it was a brief moment of contact, it feels  _meaningful_ , just like every small, cryptic moment with Anya. 

 

She tries not to wonder at it, and if her voice trembles a little when she finally speaks, Anya does not comment on it. ‘I can always use an extra pair of hands, if you want to help’. 

 

It is not exactly true, because honestly, she works better alone. Wick’s ‘help’ has just made her more frustrated than anything. But Anya has just told her about the Mountain, a tale that does not dip below the surface to the darker truths of what happened in its depths, but Raven gets the idea, gets an image, and it is not a nice one. She can’t offer comfort, but she can offer Anya a way to help, because she thinks that, like her, inaction simply frustrates the woman. 

 

Anya frowns slightly, and out of the corner of her eye, Raven can see that the woman is flexing her hand slightly, and she wonders if the physical contact bothered her. ‘You want my help in building weapons for the war against Mount Weather?’

 

‘Yup’. 

 

Anya stares at her for a moment, ghosts swirling in her eyes, and Raven waits. They are close - if Raven lent to her right slightly, their arms would brush together - but she doesn’t move. She doesn’t want to push the contact, for either of them, and so she ignores the part of her soul that calls out for the warmth she found in Anya’s hands. 

 

She thinks of that moment out on the training ground. There had been something about the way Anya moved, her hair fanning out around her, the sun glinting in the objects attached to the ends of her braids, shining along the sharp edges of her swords, of her cheekbones, the twisting motions of her body, lithe and strong and fiercely graceful. 

 

The half smiles Raven had received from the woman had been nothing to the wild joy in her eyes as she moved and twisted, dancing around Indra as if she’d trusted implicitly in her own body to avoid Indra’s skill. It had been nothing to the blinding flash of her smile, the laugh that bubbled from her tongue, expelling into the air and twisting around her as if it was a part of her, as if there was nothing in that moment but the circle of Grounders surrounding them, nothing but the heat of the sun on their backs and the rhythm of blades clashing together. As if the horrors of the Mountain had never touched her, as if the harshness of their reality could not. 

 

There, with her people smiling and watching, with the blades singing in her hands, Indra moving in counterpoint to her, Anya had been fierce and beautiful and so, so full of life that Raven hadn’t been able to look away. 

 

Her heart had been pounding, and there had been heat in her cheeks when Anya met her eyes, and she’d let herself get caught up in the thrill of the fight, let the radiance pouring from the woman fill her veins, let it, because watching, she hadn’t thought of Finn or her leg, she hadn’t thought of everything that had happened to her, because the vibrancy in the air had been infectious, and she’d been caught up in its tide, and she hadn’t cared, hadn’t cared that the feeling had come from watching a woman she barely knows. She doesn’t think she’s felt that alive in a long time. 

 

She thinks of that here, waiting for Anya to act. Gradually, the haunted look fades, and a smile curves the woman’s lips, a small, soft thing. Somehow, Raven thinks that Anya understands what she’s trying to do. The woman inclines her head, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she takes a seat beside Raven, and holds out her hands. There is something very amusing about the sight; Anya sitting at a table strewn with mechanical parts, out of place with her war paint and Grounder garb, but somehow, there is something about the way she sits there, expectant and willing, that makes Raven smile. When she feels the corner of her mouth quirk, she decides, for the first time since Finn died, not to hold it back. She lets the smile stretch wide, honest and amused and it feels…better. 

It feels  _good._  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i was really nervous posting this so I'm really hoping you all like it
> 
> this whole thing about the violence the Grounders suffered at the hands of the Mountain Men came about because I rewatched the third ep and it just felt like there was a whole lot we didn't see, because we saw most of it from Clarke's perspective. 
> 
> i've always thought that Anya would be the type to smile and laugh during combat, just from what we saw with her in the drop ship in the season one final and i just wanted to have her duelling Indra. imagine canon Anya reacting to Indra taking Octavia as a second and all the interactions we could've had sigh. 
> 
> anyway, hope this was enjoyable. as always, suggestions are welcome :)


	11. Chapter 11

Despite the way Anya looked at her when she refused to let Indra torture Emerson, she is the first person Clarke goes to when she works out how to keep the Mountain Men from discovering Bellamy’s presence. 

 

She puts the walkie down, and glances at Raven. ‘Anya was leaving here when I arrived’.

 

Raven’s jaw tightens, and she shifts imperceptibly away from her. It hurts, just like every interaction between them since Finn’s death has hurt, but Clarke hardens her heart and continues, ‘do you know where she went?’

 

Raven picks up one of her contraptions, and Clarke watches her fingers tighten. She hates that her friend is so uncomfortable around her, hates this tension between them. ‘She said she had to get back to training’.

 

Clarke frowns. She remembers the way Anya avoided her eyes as they passed in the corridor, staring straight ahead, and feels a knot form in her stomach. She remembers how much she wanted Emerson dead the moment she found out that her people were already being drained, and the fact that Anya was right. ‘Okay… thanks. Let me know if you hear anything else form Bellamy, okay? I might have an idea’.

 

Raven nods sharply, and Clarke walks away with the woman's eyes burning into her back, and wishes that things could go back to the way they used to be between them. But whats done is done. Clarke’s spent too long wondering if she could have done things differently since she hit the ground to continue to dwell on it now. 

 

She finds Anya standing on the edge of the training ground, watching some of the Grounders as they train. Clarke finds herself wondering whether they ever do anything but train. Since their arrival, there always seems to be a group of them moving back and forth, the clash of their blades ringing out. The sound has become a constant, a colour to the general noise of the Arkers as they go about their business. 

 

Indra is standing with her, seemingly deep in conversation with her. When she sees Clarke’s approach, the older woman shuts her mouth with an almost audible snap, and turns away sharply. 

 

Anya glances in her direction, and something around her mouth tightens. Her posture becomes defensive, and Clarke hates how things between them seemed to have shifted backwards. And the worst of it is, Anya was right. The moment Clarke found out that the Mountain Men were already draining her people, she wanted the guard dead, and she hates it. Not that Anya was right, because Anya has been right about a lot of things, but she knows that she’s being hypocritical, and the sensation that stirs in her gut as she approaches the woman feels a lot like guilt. 

 

‘Can I talk to you?’ she asks. She glances around at the people around them, but she’s not wary of Anya’s people. She’s wary of the guards patrolling the fence. 

 

Anya follows her gaze, observing as Clarke’s eyes flick from one guard to the next. The caution in her eyes is obvious, and she frowns slightly. ‘What are you planning, Clarke?’

 

‘Can we just… can we go talk somewhere?’ 

 

Anya narrows her eyes slightly, but nods. Clarke leads her to the place that Raven helped them escape to, where they are shielded from the guards, trying to work out how to voice the realisation that she’s come to. 

 

She hates the Mountain Men, and their gilded cages, and what they have started doing to her friends, and the way Dante smiles and lies as if it as easy as breathing, and she wants them dead. 

 

But Anya didn’t have a gilded cage. Anya was locked in a cage that was a poorly disguised coffin. There was no room in there to breathe, with other cages stacked on top of her, with her people dying above her, around her, with the air thick with death and pain and suffering. Clarke can still remember how heavy the atmosphere was in that room, how it smelt, she can still remember how the air seemed to press down on her skin, soaking in and sapping her of any last threads of hope she’d held that she was wrong about the Mountain. She remembers all of that, and she was there for a handful of seconds. 

 

Anya has far more cause to hate the Mountain Men, to want them dead, but instead of shoving past Clarke and flooding the guard’s cell with radiation, she turned away. At the time, Clarke wondered why. She’d wondered if it was because of the respect between them, the trust that had built over time, or if it was because she was shaken, at the sight of a very real reminder of the Mountain.

 

Now, as Anya folds her arms, and tilts her head slightly, she wonders if it might have been something of a lesson. Anya had said,  _when your people are the one’s being harvested for blood, you’ll understand, Clarke,_ and there had been a strange certainty there, like she had known that only a few hours later, it would be Clarke that had to be stopped from flooding that cage with radiation. 

 

She takes a deep breath, and prepares herself for another conflict with the woman. ‘My mom did some tests on the guard. They’ve started draining my people’. 

 

Anya’s mouth tightens, and she raises an eyebrow. ‘Am I to assume you want him dead now, too?’

 

‘Anya…’ she sighs heavily. ‘You were right. I wanted him dead the moment I found out. And I know that its hypocritical of me, but thats why I’m here. I need your help. Bellamy needs me to find a way of keeping the Mountain Men’s attention focused on us, so that they won’t find him. I have a plan, but I need your help’. 

 

Anya frowns, and the frustration in her eyes is clear. ‘You want my help? You should have killed that man already, and you clearly still haven’t. Why should I listen to you, if you haven’t listened to me?'

 

‘Because I think that there is a problem with this alliance’. 

 

The sun is setting, and the sky is rapidly darkening above them. In the dimming light, Clarke sees Anya’s frown deepen. ‘A problem?’

 

‘Yeah, a problem. I didn’t want that man dead until I learned what they had started doing to my people. But your people have been suffering that fate for generations.  _You_ nearly suffered the same fate’. 

 

Anya’s jaw tightens. ‘Your point, Clarke?'

 

Clarke takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. She tries to calm the frantic thoughts in her mind, thoughts of distracting the Mountain Men from Bellamy, thoughts of her people in the Mountain, thoughts of the Grounders in their cages. ‘Your people have been suffering at the hands of the Mountain Men for far longer than mine, and yet I’ve been prioritising getting my people out. That’s all I’ve been thinking of’.

 

To her surprise, Anya raises an eyebrow, looking more expectant than surprised. ‘This is not a revolutionary thought, Clarke. We are separate people. Your people still think mine are savages, and mine still think that yours are invaders. Your people cannot understand the reality of the Mountain, and my people know that. You talk about the Mountain and you talk about saving your people from a terrible fate, and you forget that for us, there are people who can never be saved’.

 

‘Thats my point’. She steps closer, and takes it as a good sign when Anya does not back away. ‘My people, your people? They don’t know what its like in that Mountain. My people thought that we could afford to wait because of how my friends were being treated when we left. Your people only knew that their friends and family disappeared into the Mountain and were never seen again. But you and I? We know the truth. We know how horrible it truly is. We know what will happen if we fail’.

 

Anya frowns faintly, but some of the tension seems to leak from her. Clarke takes another small step forward, like she can push past this knew rift between them. ‘You and I started this, Anya. We escaped Mount Weather together, and in the end, whatever difficulties and disagreements between us, you agreed that an alliance was what we needed’. 

 

Anya’s mouth twitches, a faint smirk, and Clarke doesn’t doubt what the woman is remembering. She inclines her head. ‘We did’. 

  
'And you and I both know that there are plenty of your people who believe that Lexa was foolish to make this alliance'.

Anya frowns slightly. 'And there are plenty of your people who would rather leave mine to the Mountain at the first chance. Who would rather this alliance with  _savages_  fail’, she says, her voice hard in challenge. 

'I know’, she says, trying to keep her voice level, trying not to rise to the challenge. ‘And that's my point. We can't fight each other and take on the Mountain. Whether or not we find a way to make this alliance last after we take the Mountain, we need to stop thinking of our people as separate. We need to work together'.

'What do you suggest? That we all take on seconds? That we teach you our ways?’ The tone in Anya’s voice is unmistakably mocking. 

  
'No. I think Octavia might be one of the few people who would actually understand where I am coming from, but no, I don't think you should take us all on. But everyone is aware of the tension. We need a show of support'.

Anya tilts her head. 'What do you suggest?'

'That we continue what we started. That you and I work together. That we show both our people that this alliance can work'.

'And how would we do that?'

Clarke takes a deep breath, trying not to see these continued questions as a sign that Anya is beginning to see her point of view. 'You help me break Emerson out of containment, and we send him back to the Mountain with just enough oxygen to get him there with a message that we are coming for them'.

‘You want a distraction? How will that show our people anything?’

 

‘Because most of the adults here still treat me like I’m a child. Like I’m an innocent’. She tries not to think of the three hundred warriors whose blood is on her hands, or the last exhale of Finn’s breath against her ear. She thinks sees a flash of understanding in Anya’s eyes, and tries to cling to it, tries to push. ‘Your people know better. They know that this alliance is because of a lot of the things that I have done’.

 

‘And you think that if I support you, my people will think that you are in charge?’

 

‘I think that if you support me when I go against my own mother, our people will see that I’m trying to do what needs to be done for  _both_ our people, rather than just an act of childish rebellion’. 

 

Anya raises her eyebrows, and she stands there, silent and still, for a long moment, searching Clarke’s face, and Clarke waits, waits as the sky darkens and Anya’s face disappears into shadow, hoping that she’s argued her point well enough. She didn’t know how to say a lot of what she wanted to say, didn’t know how to articulate the guilt that she’d experienced once her rage towards the guard had calmed, and she just has to hope its enough. 

 

And then Anya holds out her hand, and Clarke feels relief flood through her. She clasps Anya’s forearm firmly, and smiles. Anya’s lips are quirked in that slight, but genuine smile that Clarke has become strangely familiar with, and the woman says, ’together, then, Clarke’. 

 

Clarke remembers clasping Lexa’s hand in her tent, remembers the fire in the young Commander’s eyes, the warmth of her strong fingers, and her smile widens. ‘ _Ogeda, Onya’._  


 

As Anya’s smile widens, her eyes crinkling in amusement, Clarke remembers how when Lexa said that word, and when she returned it, it had felt like a promise. This time, clasping hands with the woman who once refused, who was once an enemy, the woman who has fought by her side, who has been training her with dedication, who almost died so that she and Lexa could get away, could ensure this alliance survived, she knows that it is. 

  
Anya drops her hand, and rests it on the pommel of her sword, rather than folding her arms again. ‘You will need more than just my support if we are to get past your guards, Clarke’. 

 

‘I know. I was hoping you could convince a few’. 

 

Anya tilts her head, and calls out, ‘Indra?’

 

Clarke turns. Indra steps out from behind the overhang, and Octavia is by her side. She’s grinning widely, and even if Indra’s face is as impassive as ever, Clarke realises that they have heard every word. Octavia clearly approves, but she can’t read Indra’s expression. Anya steps up beside Clarke, regarding the older woman with an almost expectant look.  _‘Well, Indra? What do you think?’_  


Indra scoffs, and shakes her head slightly.  _‘The girl is not a fool, I will give her that’._ She pauses, and Clarke narrows her eyes slightly, having recognised the words  _gada_ and  _branwada_ , and they are hardly helpful. Then Indra nods.  _‘I was getting tired of sitting around and waiting, anyway’._  


Octavia’s grin widens, and Clarke takes that as a good sign. Indra glances between her second and Clarke, and then back at Anya, and says, ‘ _her accent is appalling_ ’, and Octavia bursts into laughter. 

 

Anya smiles, amusement twinkling in her eyes, and Clarke glances between them all. ‘Well?’ she asks, shooting Octavia a glare, because though she doesn’t understand, she has the feeling that whatever Indra said was at her expense. 

 

Indra turns to her, and even though she doesn’t smile, her expression is not as rigid as it was. ‘My warriors will aid you, Clarke of the Sky People’. 

 

Clarke inclines her head, mainly to hide how relieved she is, and says,  _‘mochof_ ,  _Indra’._  

 

Clarke turns and walks away from them, Octavia by her side. Indra glances at Anya, and raises her eyebrows slightly.  _‘What are you waiting for, Onya?’_  


Anya shakes her head slightly, a small, amused smile playing about her lips.  _‘Never mind. Lets move, Indra’._  


Sometimes, Clarke does things that remind her strangely of Lexa. Its in the stubborn set to her jaw, the defiant tilt of her chin, in this act of rebellion in an effort to create peace. She choses not to tell Indra that, however, because if she did, the woman would accuse her of going soft. 

 

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

 

Not long after Clarke’s act of rebellion, Anya leaves the girl alone with her mother, leaves Indra to her warriors, and circles around the fence, searching for a place of silence. She needs space, space from Indra’s searching glances, glances that remind her horribly of the ones the woman gave her after the Mountain Men forced her to kill Icarus, like she’s checking for something, checking that what happened to her in the Mountain isn’t going to break through the surface of her calm. She needs space from the looks her people give her, looks of respect and admiration, like they trust that with her by their side, the sole survivor of the Mountain, they will take it. 

 

It almost frightens her, the faith they see in her, their easy forgiveness for her failure to destroy the people who fell from the sky. She will fight with everything she has and every last drop of strength in her body, she will die if it means saving her people and destroying the Mountain, but she fears that it will not be enough. 

 

She knows better than anyone just how much one person can change. She watched Lexa, her second with a gentle heart and the strength of the very earth in her veins, take a world ravaged by war, and unite the twelve clans, against all odds. 

 

But she is not Lexa. She is not a revolutionist, with grand plans for peace. When Lexa lost Costia, Anya wanted vengeance. She wanted blood. Lexa extended an olive branch to Nia and hardened her heart and brought the Ice Nation in to complete the Coalition. When Tris died on that table, Anya blamed Clarke, even though there was a part of her that always knew there was nothing she could do. When Clarke helped her escape the Mountain, Anya let her anger and grief over the warriors she lost at their camp come surging back to the surface, she let her rage and despair over the Mountain boil at her finger tips, she ignored Clarke’s words for peace, because she hadn’t wanted peace, she’d wanted violence and blood, and she’d wanted the girl she considered weak and naive to just  _shut up_. 

 

There was a moment, siting in the Medical tent and unknowingly waiting for Clarke to return from the sight of a massacre, with memories of the Mountain flittering about her like ghosts, with the names of all the warriors that she lost to the Sky People tumbling about in her head, when Anya had let herself wonder what would have happened if she’d accepted Clarke’s offer. If she’d found a way to make the people who had not yet fallen from the sky keep the promise of their young leader. 

 

Anya sits beneath the overhang of metal close by the fence, where Clarke asked her for her support, and when she does, the noises seem dimmed, muted, as if it is just this circle of dirt and the fence that she can’t see if she focuses on the trees beyond. 

 

She’s only been there for a few minutes, listening to the distant buzz of conversation from her people around their fires, when she hears footsteps approaching. She stays silent, her eyes trained on the start sky, her hand on her sword, hoping that maybe if it is one of her people, they’ll just pass her by. Instead, she hears them approach, and stop at the edge of the overhang. There is a pause.

 

‘If you’re wondering what its like to be up there, I can give you a first hand account’. 

 

Despite the fact that she retreated in order to be alone, Anya feels her lips quirk at the sound of Raven’s voice. She doesn’t look at her, but she hears the woman move closer, and out of the corner of her eye she can see the moonlight glinting on her distinctive leg brace. She sighs, staring up at the stars, and her voice is wry and exasperated when she says, ‘if Clarke needs me -’ 

 

‘Clarke didn’t send me’. Raven sits down beside her, her injured leg extended flat while she pulls her other knee up to her chest. 

 

Anya does glance at her then, raising an eyebrow. ‘Then why are you here?’

 

‘Believe it or not, I wasn’t actually looking for you. I needed some space from everyone, and this is one of the few places that seems hidden from everyone else’. Raven meets her gaze, clearly curious as to why she’s there, humour lacing her tired voice. ‘Have you taken it upon yourself to guard this part of the fence? Or are you just hiding from Clarke?’

 

Anya shakes her head, her beads clicking together in the silence. ‘I was seeking solitude’.

 

The slight smile slips from Raven’s face, and Anya realises how that sounds. She did want to be alone, and probably would have preferred it if she’d stayed that way, but when Raven shifts her weight forwards, clearly in an attempt to rise, she feels a strange, unexpected flash of guilt. Not too long ago, she invaded this woman's space, again seeking to get away from everything, and Raven didn’t ask her to leave. Instead, she attempted to comfort her, and gave her something to do, and Anya had appreciated the effort. The least she can do is let the woman stay. Anya raises her hand, and the movement gives Raven pause. She hesitates. ‘If this is the only place you can find peace, Raven, I will find somewhere else’. 

 

Raven sits back, and the shadows make her frown severe. ‘I’m not going to kick you out, when you were here first. If you’re happy for me to stay, we can always share’.

 

Anya blinks. This situation feels almost bizarre, but she is not yet ready to return to her people, or to guarding Clarke, and so she nods. ‘That is… fine’. 

 

Raven smiles again. She props her chin on her knee, and stares out into the dark. Anya watches her for a moment. The moon is bright and full above them, and pale light washes over Raven’s face, making it stand out clearly, while the rest of her disappears into the shadow cast by the overhang behind them. It highlights the curve of her jaw and the shadows beneath her eyes, smoothing out the creases usually furrowing her brow or pinching her eyes. It makes her look softer, almost relaxed, without the tension around her eyes.

 

Anya blinks again, and turns away. They sit in silence for a while, and it is a strangely comfortable silence. The strange easiness between them makes her almost  _uneasy_ , because she’s not sure what to make of it. There have been very few times in her life when Anya has been unsure about anything, but this, this strange gravitation towards this woman who she barely knows, a pull that has led her to do things she usually reserves for her own people, is something she can’t explain. She doesn’t know what to make of it, this strange attraction, doesn’t understand it, and it almost worries her, because she doesn’t know what it will urge her to do next.

 

Raven lets out a long, tired sigh beside her, and breaks the silence. ‘So, you wouldn’t happen to be hiding from the person you’re meant to be guarding, would you?’

 

Anya snorts. ‘I am training Clarke, not babysitting her. Unless someone within your camp wants her dead, and attacks while she’s with her mother, she will be safe for at least an hour’. She catches a glimpse of Raven’s skeptical look, and adds. 'Clarke is under our Commander’s protection. Everyone here knows the consequences of disobeying her direct orders’. 

 

Raven nods slowly. She smiles, and it is a tired thing. ‘Well, I understand needing space’. 

 

Anya tilts her head, curious at the almost longing tone to Raven’s voice. ‘Are you… hiding from someone?’

 

Raven sighs, and the exhaustion in her eyes seems to deepen. ‘Yes and no. Wick was getting on my nerves. And…’ she frowns, and turns to look at her properly. The movement causes the shadows to leap forward over her face, leaving one eye gleaming in the dark. If Anya was anyone else, she might find it hard to read the woman with so much of her face hidden, but they are sitting close in a cocoon of shadows and moonlight, with the noises of the camp muted, and Anya learnt long ago how to read more than just facial expressions. The hesitation tells her that Raven is conflicted, that she wants to speak but the words are caught on her tongue. She remembers standing in Raven’s workspace, with the woman sitting close beside her, with all the things that the Mountain Men had done swirling around in her head until she could see the memories at the edges of her vision, see cages and batons and blood, and that Raven had said,  _you don’t have to tell me, Anya_. 

 

It is strange, she thinks, the way Raven has treated her, the way she spoke to her in that room. She remembers another night like this, when Clarke’s hands still seemed to shake, when she turned her head to watch a ghost that no one else could see, when Raven had taken her out into the dark with a knife hidden in her hand. She remembers that Raven had looked at her like she  _wanted_  to hate her, but couldn’t. She remembers the girl's blatant astonishment when Anya apologised for her people’s stubbornness, and their refusal to see the truth. 

 

She thinks about the first time she met Raven, and that she’d recognised the girl’s strength, even if she didn’t herself.

 

The words escape her before she’s really thought it through. ‘You don’t have to tell me,  _Reivon_ ’. 

 

Raven blinks, seemingly recognising the words. She is silent for a moment longer, before she takes a deep breath and says, ‘do you ever feel like things are just… too much?’

 

Anya tilts her head, and as the moonlight shifts across her face, Raven catches a glimmer of that hollow look she saw earlier. Anya doesn’t speak, but she nods. Raven bites back a wry, humourless chuckle. Of course Anya understands, Anya, who has the truth of the Mountain contained in her bones. Raven sighs. ‘I just… needed a break, you know? From how people treat me’.

 

Anya frowns slightly. ‘How do people treat you?’

 

Raven does laugh then, but its not an amused sound. ‘Well, not the way you do’. When Anya continues to look at her with that slight, confused frown, Raven continues, ‘you once told me that your people consider this sort of thing’, she raps her knuckles on her injured leg, ‘a sign of honour. Thats just another way our people are different. No one knows how to treat me. Whether they should pretend that its just not there, or whether they should cater to me. They don’t know where to look. Wick is brash and frank because hd doesn’t know how to be anything else, and Abby is caring to the point of being smothering. And then, after Finn…’ she trails off, and Anya watches her lick her lips, and blink back the sudden brightness in her eyes. 

 

Anya says, ‘how would you like them to treat you?’

 

Raven is slightly thrown by her words. There is something considerate about the simple question. She shrugs it off by deflecting. ‘I’d like them to make up their minds. They can’t seem to decide whether I need time or normalcy’. 

 

Anya shifts slightly, and Raven shouldn’t really be able to hear it, but she’s strangely hyper aware of every movement Anya makes. ‘What do you need?’

 

No one has asked her that question, and Raven is so struck by it, that once again, she deflects. She doesn’t know what else to do, because she’s not sure if she can think of the significance of it. She gives herself a slight shake, as if she can dismiss the sudden weight to a conversation that started with her usual sarcasm. She should have known that it wouldn’t last, the lightness, because while she’s seen that Anya is capable of sarcasm with Clarke, she’s only ever been deadly serious around Raven, delivering her words flatly and listening to what she has to say with a sharp, intensely focused concentration, and even if Raven started this conversation simply to fill the silence, she should have known that it wouldn’t stay that way. She says, ‘so, enough about me. You never told me why you were out here’. 

 

She’s not really expecting an answer, because Anya has already avoided the question once, but then the woman shrugs her left shoulder, and says, ‘what Clarke has done will have consequences. This peace’, she gestures out at the dark, at the edge of the woods and up towards the moon. With her fingers curved and her palm tilted up, it looks like she’s reaching for the stars. ‘It will not last much longer’. She lets out a breath, and her mask slips down, and falls away into the dark, and Raven realises how exhausted the woman looks. ‘Conflict is on the horizon. I needed a moment to… savour this calm’.

 

Raven tilts her head slightly, watching the way Anya’s mouth ticks down. She remembers what the woman had told her about the Mountain, and frowns. She wonders whether Anya has really had time to stop and absorb what happened in the Mountain, whether she’s dealt with being the sole survivor of a trauma her people have suffered for decades. She wants to comment on it, but she’s not sure how with this woman. She says carefully, ‘they’re not easy to come by, are they?’

 

Anya shakes her head, and silence falls between them again. Raven thinks that there is a strange parallel between them. The things that they have suffered are far from similar, but neither of them have had time to process, or to grieve, or to deal with it in their own ways. They go on because they have to, because they’re expected to, because they’re at war and war doesn’t leave time to spare. 

 

A sudden sense of frustration surges through her, and she sighs, scrubbing a hand over her face. She glances at her silent companion, and bites her lip. The question burning on her tongue feels like it has the potential to make her vulnerable. ‘Can I ask you something?’ When Anya nods slightly, she says slowly, ‘what do your people do, when they don’t have time to mourn?'

 

Anya frowns, and she seems to tense. ‘You speak as if it is uncommon’. 

 

Raven restrains herself from rolling her eyes. She’d almost forgotten how defensive Anya could be of her people. ‘It was just a question, Grounder Princess’. 

 

Anya is silent. Just when Raven is sure that she’s not going to respond, Anya says, ‘my second died because of the bomb you and your people put on that bridge’. Her voice is hard, but its fractured, sorrow bleeding out into the dark, a hint of regret written in the down turn of her lips. 

 

Raven says nothing. She remembers the last time Anya spoke of this, on a similar night, when things between them were very different. The way Anya says it now is very different, without the accusation that was there before. She remembers coming to the conclusion that out of all the people responsible for the events that led to Finn’s death, Anya might be one of the easiest to forgive. 

 

Anya takes a deep breath, and her mask slips further away. ‘I… I haven’t had time to mourn, either’. 

 

Raven realises how significant this is, how  _huge_ , that Anya is telling her this, an admission of what the Grounders seem to consider weakness. She feels her heart ache, for what this world has done to them, for what it has taken from all of them. ‘How do you do it?’

 

_How do you hold it in? How do you seem so composed? How do forget it? How?_

In the dark, Anya fiddles with the handle of the knife strapped to her thigh. Raven wonders whether the woman finds comfort in the weight of a weapon, and her hand drifts down to her own. ‘What all our warriors do during times of war. I took what I was feeling, and I pushed it away. I will wait for a time when it will be safe to mourn’. She pauses. ‘That is what you must do,  _Reivon_. Wait. Be strong until it is safe not to be’. 

 

Raven swallows tightly. Anya’s advice is a version of what she has been telling herself, over and over, that she has to be strong because her people need her. ‘What do you do when it becomes too much?’

 

Anya’s jaw tightens. She’s silent for a moment, as if reluctant to continue this conversation, a conversation that feels raw and exposed and far too intimate with the darkness shielding them from the rest of the world. Then the woman jerks her head up, indicating the stars glittering above them. She speaks quickly, flatly, as if the words will mean less, will be less of an admission if they are said without emotion. ‘When I was younger, I used to look at the stars. It was a reminder that my turmoil was so unimportant in the vast scheme of things’. 

 

Raven’s throat tightens, almost unbearably, and she sees Finn gazing out at the stars, eyes bright and alive. Her eyes burn, and she turns her face away until she’s sure that her expression doesn’t show how she’s feeling. She says shakily, ‘any other tips?’ and her attempt at levity falls depressingly flat. 

 

Anya turns to look at her, and with half her face hidden in the dark, she is difficult to read. Raven can see her eyes flickering over her face, as if searching, considering, and she sits there and waits. She’s become almost used to this, to that look, as if Anya has to check that Raven is sincere in her curiosity, in her questions. She never knows what the woman is looking for, but she can do little but wait for her to reach a decision. Then Anya reaches into her coat, fingers groping in what Raven assumes is some sort of inner pocket. Anya turns her head away, holding out her hand without looking at her, and Raven sees something lying in her palm. 

 

Raven takes the object from Anya slowly, her fingers curling briefly against the woman's rough, warm palm. She pulls back quickly, before that part of her that longs for the warmth she always seems to find in Anya’s hands can really stir, and holds it up to examine it in the pale light. 

 

The object is made of three pieces of corded string, about the length of a hand span, joined at the top by a small, cylindrical knob of wood, peaking over the top to create a small loop. At the end of each string is a single bead, dulled blue, red and green. Raven fits her pinky finger through the loop and waves her hand slightly, listening to the beads crack together in the silence.

 

'What is this?'

 

Anya is silent, as if considering her words. Then, 'it's how we teach our very young to braid hair. Before our Commander united the twelve clans, we were constantly at war. We did not always have time to be patient with clumsy hands’.

 

Raven frowns slightly, watching the gentle sway of the beads. 'Why do you have one, then?'

 

Again, her question is met with silence. ‘I have always found the act of braiding hair to be… calming. That is a poor substitute, but it was… enough, sometimes’. 

 

Raven turns to look at the woman finally, feeling the weight of Anya's words between them. She understands what the woman has just given her. Anya is not looking at her, but out into the darkness, and she looks almost soft, with the silver light caressing her profile.

 

Raven feels her throat tighten and her eyes burn without warning, and swallows thickly. It takes her a moment to identify why. She looks down at the object resting in her hand and says quietly, ‘my mother never taught me how to braid my hair’. 

 

She hears Anya hiss, and is surprised by how angry it sounds. She thinks that maybe that one fact has told Anya more about her relationship with her mother than she'd meant her to know. 

 

But Anya doesn't ask her for more information, and Raven is grateful for that. Her mother is old wound that has never quite healed, and she doesn't know if she'd be able to keep her composure after what's happened. It is strange how a simple difference between the way the Grounders make room for the needs of their children, even in war, can remind Raven of the neglect she received from her own mother. Instead, the other woman says, 'then you should learn'.

 

Raven glances at Anya, to see the woman looking at her with an unreadable expression, but that the skin around her one visible eye is soft, the set of her mouth relaxed. Raven hands out the object to her, frowning when the woman doesn't reach for it. 'Thanks for the advice', she says, trying to read the slight tightening of the woman's jaw at her words. ‘I’m sure I can find something similar here’. In truth, the object reminds her of the things she’s trying to make in her workspace, reminds her of hours of tinkering and fiddling with wires and metal.

 

Anya reaches out, and closes Raven's fingers around the object. Her fingers are warm and strong, and she holds Raven’s hand closed in the shape of a fist for a lingering moment that seems to stretch on and on, and Raven feels as if the warmth in the woman’s hand is curling over her fingers, seeping into her skin and into her bones, feels as if the cold is fleeing from Anya’s touch, before Anya drops her hand into the dirt, into the space between them. The woman seems to be smiling slightly, but maybe it's a trick of the shadows the moonlight sends flickering over her face. 'Keep it. You need it more than I'.

 

Raven stares at her. She has long given up trying to understand why Anya chooses to be almost gentle with her, without being condescending or pitying, why she has answered her questions and listened to her, why she treats her the way she does. She’s given up, because she doesn’t understand, and accepting it and trying to learn as she goes is easier than puzzling over every little action. But this feels different. This feels like more. 

 

In every recent interaction they’ve had, Raven has had to remind herself that she can’t comfort Anya, not just because she wouldn’t know how, but because they aren’t friends. 

 

And maybe they aren’t, but Raven’s hand feels like its burning from the touch of Anya’s fingers, and she sits there with a gift clutched like a life line in her fist, and words of advice ringing in her mind, and thinks that okay, maybe they’re not friends, maybe they don’t know each other well enough to be friends, but they are  _something,_ something more than strangers or allies, and Raven wonders whether Anya has a word for it, or whether she’s just as lost. She almost wants to ask, but instead, she tightens her fingers around the gift and presses it against her chest. She reaches out, without giving herself time to hesitate or second guess, chasing the warmth that left her burning, and rests her hand on top of Anya’s in the dirt. ‘Thank you’, she says, god does she mean it.  

 

Anya stares out into the darkness, and doesn’t shrug off her hand. Instead, her lips curve, just slightly, and she tilts her head up, as if she’s trying to soak in the silverly light, and Raven can see the stars reflecting in her eyes. ‘Tell me, then’. 

 

‘Tell you what?’

 

‘What its like to be among the stars’.

 

Raven blinks, and laughs, a short, surprised sound, because she hadn’t really meant it as an offer. But the very faint smile curving her lips seems to grow, and Raven thinks that even though she has nothing to give Anya in return for the object still clenched in her fist, she can describe a world that Anya used to imagine as a child. 

 

Raven has always been a talker. She’s always filled silence with words, because she grew up learning to hate the silence of the quarters she shared with her mother. So when she starts, the words are easy, and they flow freely, and it might be the easiest gift she’s ever given. 

 

She tells Anya about what it was like to live among the stars, and how far away they were, how bright and glittering. She tells her about what it was like to spin among them, attached to the Ark by a thread, the strange terror that she might float away, and the exhilaration thrumming in her veins. She’d felt free, out there among the stars, away from the ever present walls of the Ark. For those few precious seconds, with the stars surrounding her and the Earth spinning below her, she’d forgotten that she’d been born into a place that she’d never leave. She tells Anya about how the Earth looks from above, and how it was nothing, nothing compared to when she reached the ground. 

 

She talks until she remembers how she’d felt when she stepped out of the pod, how awed and happy she’d been, and how different it is to how she feels now. She falls silent rather suddenly, and after a pause, she clears her throat. ‘I thought that this world was beautiful. I never considered how harsh it might be’. 

 

Anya makes a sound that sounds like a long, low hum, and Raven glances at her. The woman is still staring out into the dark, and that smile is still there. She looks almost wistful. ‘There is a place deeper into the woods where there is moss covering the trees, and at night, it glows’.

 

‘Glow? Like, a mutation from the radiation?’ Raven isn’t exactly sure where the woman is going with this, or how it relates to her monologue about the stars, but she’s content to wait. 

 

Anya nods. ‘One of its few harmless effects. There are butterflies that have been affected by the same radiation. They, like the trees, glow a brilliant, unnatural blue’. She pauses again. ‘Not far from here, the people of the Boat Clan live by the ocean. When the sun rises over the edge of the horizon, the ocean turns to fire. To liquid gold’. 

 

She turns her head to look at her then, and Raven decides that she does not imagine the softness in the little she can see of the woman’s expression. ‘This is a harsh world’. She blinks, and there is a strange intensity in her one visible eye. ‘We learn that young. But there is still beauty here,  _Reivon._ All you know of this world is our conflicts, and our wars. They will not last forever’. 

 

Raven feels the breath rush out of her at Anya’s words, and for a moment, she doesn’t know why they have such an impact on her. But maybe its because there is a part of her, a small part that she’s tried to ignore, wondered if that this is what life is like. That all this world has to offer is death and suffering and pain, conflicts with different adversaries that meld into each other until they become a never ending life of war, and the thought horrifies her. 

 

But here is Anya, with softness in her eyes, telling her that there is more to this world. That there is a beauty to be found in this world that was once only a dream. It is unexpected, but then again, every interaction between them has been the same. And Raven wants to believe her, so she tries to smile, despite the sudden tightness in her throat. She takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. ‘Well, I hope you’re right, Anya’. 

 

Anya’s smile widens suddenly, an unexpected flash in the dark, and the corner of her eye crinkles in amusement. ‘Hasn’t Clarke told you? I am always right’. 

 

Raven feels a laugh burst from her lips, and even if its short and more surprised than amused, it feels indescribably good. 

 

She remembers how she’d felt watching Anya duel with Indra, how the vibrance radiating from the woman and made her feel alive. And there, under the moon, Raven feels a flash of understanding, like a light bulb going off in the dark. It is a seconds worth of comprehension, but in that second, Raven knows why she feels an almost magnetic attraction towards this woman, beyond the fact that she has been soft when she should have been hard. 

 

It is the warmth that radiates from the woman, the strength and life, despite the horror of the Mountain, and the men who tried to sap the life from her, and the part of Raven left hollow by Finn’s death is drawn towards that warmth, to the woman’s fierce, uncompromising beauty. 

 

In that second of suspension, any complexity about them and their interactions falls away, and Raven allows herself to get lost in the moment, to hold onto it, this simplicity of certainty that she has not known since she came down to the ground. She stares up at the dark sky, the twinkling stars blurring together, and lets herself have this moment of tranquility. She thinks that Anya might be right, and that there won’t be another for quite some time. 

 

It is there, with that moment washing over her, with the tension easing from her shoulders, that Raven realises that her hand is still resting over Anya’s in the dirt. For a second, she wonders if the woman realises, before she remembers that Anya notices everything. 

 

She doesn’t know what to make of it, but with that moment of clear certainty and understanding resting on her shoulders, she decides that she doesn’t care. 

 

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

 

Clarke feels like any residual anger Anya seems to harbour towards her drains the moment they learn about the missile heading straight for TonDC. 

 

Anya grabs her arm, her fingers a vice, and even though her jaw is set and her eyes are hard, her expression is close to the one she wore when the  _pauna’s_ roar shook the trees. It is panic and horror, and Clarke feels the urgency rolling through her spike at the woman’s touch. ‘We have to warn them’.

 

Clarke nods, her throat tight, because this is her doing, it is because of her that they are sending a missile because she needed to keep them from finding out about Bellamy, but all it did, all she’s done, is provoke them.

 

She looks at Raven, and anything painful between them doesn’t seem to matter in his moment. ‘Did Kane take a radio?’

 

Raven shakes her head, a sharp, jerky movement, and the entire room seems filled with urgency. ‘No, no, he didn’t’.

 

‘ _Klark’,_ the urgency of the situation, the very real possibility that they could lose everything they’ve been working towards, and all her people gathered at TonDC, seems to have caused Anya to revert to her native tongue.  _‘We must go, now_ ’. 

 

Clarke nods, and glances at Raven, who nods, immediately understanding what she’s about to stay. ‘I’ll stay by the radio’.

 

Clarke nods, and turns to leave, only to feel Raven grab her arm. She looks conflicted, her mouth twisted down, but then she pulls Clarke into a tight, fierce hug, and for a second Clarke forgets about missiles and impending loss and consequences she hadn’t considered. For a second, she hugs Raven back, and the warmth that sparks in her heart feels horribly like hope. Raven pulls back and fixes Clarke with a hard look. ‘Don’t get blown up, okay?'

 

Clarke nods, a ghost of a smile pulling at her lips at the memory Raven’s words invoke. She turns, and starts to walk away, when she realises that Anya is not following her. 

 

She glances over her shoulder, just in time to catch the end of a silent exchange between Anya and Raven. She has no idea what passes between them, but Raven’s expression has shifted. Its still hard, like she can force them to remain unharmed by the sheer strength of her gaze alone, but there is something else, something more complicated in her eyes when she looks at Anya, and Clarke feels thrown by it, and she’s not sure why. It lacks the dislike she’s seen Raven throw at the other Grounders, the blame and the anger over Finn’s death. 

 

Anya turns away sharply, and grabs Clarke by her jacket to drag her away. Clarke shakes herself, filing away the moment for later, when she can pause to think beyond how she’s going to warn everyone in time. 

 

Anya leads Clarke towards the horses, her fingers woven tight in her jacket, and Clarke lets herself be practically dragged, because it is easier than fighting her. 

 

Anya leads her to her own horse, and says, ‘get up’, her voice tight with the same urgency Clarke feels, ‘he is the fastest. We shall ride together’. 

 

She swings herself up onto Anya’s horse, gripping the front of the saddle tightly. Anya takes the reins and guides her towards the gate, shooting sharp looks at the people who send them questioning glances. ‘Open the gate’, Clarke says, and maybe it is the sharpness in her own voice, or the tightly contained fury radiating from Anya, the murderous look in her eyes, but the guards obey her. 

 

Anya climbs up swiftly in front of her, and Clarke wraps her arms quickly around her waist, and she’s glad, because the woman doesn’t give her time to think twice. She digs her heels hard into the horses sides, and then they are moving, they are off, the wind whistling in her ears as Anya urges her horse into a gallop. 

 

‘You must go straight to Lexa, Clarke. Do not talk to anyone else. You will only create panic. She will know what to do’. Anya’s words are nearly lost as they speed through the trees, but Clarke hears them because she’s trying to focus on anything but the horror of what could happen if they don’t make it in time. 

 

‘What about you?’ she shouts, torn between gripping Anya tightly and worrying about hurting her by aggravating her wound. 

 

‘I will find Lincoln and Nyko. They must have someone watching the camp. When the evacuation begins, they may take the opportunity to kill some of our Generals, or even the Commander. We need our healers to be ready’.

 

Clarke remembers the photos they found on the assassin, and understands instantly what Anya means. This is the perfect opportunity for the Mountain Men to destroy all the high ranking Grounders within Lexa’s gathered army. If the missile fails, they’ll no doubt try and take that opportunity. ‘How many of your Generals are there?’

 

‘It is not just our Generals, Clarke. There are representatives from all twelve clans gathering. We  _must_ warn them’. There is a note of desperation in her voice that Clarke has never heard before, and it spikes the fear in Clarke’s veins. 

 

‘We will, Anya’. 

 

The turn a sharp corner, and Clarke nearly slips sideways, nearly falls, but Anya grabs her arm, her fingers an iron grip, and Clarke holds on as tightly as she can, and preys that they will make it in time. They race through the trees, and Clarke presses her face against the back of Anya’s shoulder to shield her face against the wind. She concentrates on holding on, rather than how hard her heart is pounding, and Anya does not let go of her arm. 

 

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

 

Clarke realises that Lexa loves Anya when she tells the woman about the missile heading straight for TonDC. 

 

‘We must go, Clarke’, says the woman, already moving towards the back exit, and her mask is hard and resolute, her hands clenched by her sides. 

 

‘Wait, Lexa’, she reaches out and grabs the woman’s arm, only to back away when Lexa turns to glare at her sharply, aware that she’s over stepping a boundary. She swallows hard, but meets the woman’s gaze head on. ‘What about everyone else? We can’t just -’ 

 

‘We must’, Lexa spits, and the anger in her eyes is not directed at Clarke. ‘We have no choice. If we warn people, they’ll just send another, and another, and they will know about Bellamy’. 

 

‘You’d just let them die? All of them?’ 

 

‘The Mountain Men have given us no choice’, she snarls, and Clarke sees an old, old wound, a grief that the woman has known her entire life, because the Mountain Men have taken so much from her, from the Grounders, and now they are going to take more. ‘We must make hard choices, Clarke, if we want to see the Mountain fall’.

 

Clarke feels her throat tighten. Her thoughts fly to the people in the camp, to Octavia, to Lincoln, to Kane, to Anya.  _Anya_. A horrible sensation passes over her, squeezing her heart and settling in her gut. ‘What about Anya?’

 

Lexa closes her eyes, and her mask cracks. Clarke sees pain and reluctance and sorrow, before the woman takes a deep breath. She looks resigned when she opens her eyes again, and she shakes her head. ‘Anya… we can’t make any exceptions. We have to go, now’. 

 

Clarke follows Lexa from the building, because she knows, she  _knows,_ that Lexa is right, but she thinks of Anya, as she leaves, of the softness that she occasionally catches glimpses of, of the way she squatted at Clarke’s feet and told her about her ghosts, of the almost-pride in her voice when Clarke gets something right, of how she stretched out a hand when Clarke asked for her support. She remembers the desperate need to free Anya when she found her in that cage, remembers the horror that washed over her when Anya fell, blood spilling over her hands. 

 

She remembers how desperate she was to keep Anya alive, to make sure she lived, and walking out of that building, leaving Anya to her fate, is almost physically painful. To push down those memories and emotions after having them at the forefront of her mind for so long is harder than she could have imagined. 

 

She catches sight of Lexa’s face as she glances back towards the village, sees the pain and sorrow again, and thinks that in comparison, she has it easy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have you guys ever had like this one scene you've been wanting to get to for ages when you've been writing a fic? because that one with Raven and Anya was mine and I am super nervous posting this but fingers crossed right?
> 
> so, not much of Lexa in this chapter but in terms of chronology, this is one of the last Ranya scenes we'll get before the Mountain, so it was important to get it in. 
> 
> also guys, how did Clarke convince Indra and her warriors to help her defy Abby because like, that is something I would've loved to see.
> 
> alright so, i thought i'd quickly update you all on my plans for this fic. when i originally started writing it, i think it was obvious to most people that i would end it around the same time as season 2's finale. however, after the sudden turn that this season has taken, i'm planning to keep writing through most of season 3. so i'd be exploring how Anya being alive would effect all those events. i'd also be planning to bring in more about the other clans, including Luna, but with a different take (because like, how can she be the well known leader of the Boat Clan, AND be the cowardly 8th nightblood? like, regardless of Lexa's mercy, surely she wouldn't be able to earn enough respect from others to have that kind of position?)
> 
> how does that sound? let me know what you think! suggestions always welcome :)


	12. Chapter 12

 

Anya was five years old when the threat of the Mountain Men became more than just a distant shadow, more than nightmares told in the dark to scare disobedient children into staying within the safety of their camps. 

 

Children were raised to believe, to know without any doubt, that the Mountain Men and the Reapers were real. Most were lucky if they got to her age without seeing one for themselves. 

 

Anya turned five, and found that reality could be as bad as a nightmare. 

 

To this day, she doesn’t know why the Mountain Men attacked her village. Why they sent soldiers instead of monsters. 

 

She remembers the warning shouts, the first screams of those who fell, and an explosion. She remembers that explosion as if it was engrained into her bones, that day, as if the damage the grenade left behind created an empty space within her rib cage. 

 

Perhaps it did. She lost her parents that day. 

 

She remembers waking up, regaining consciousness after the blast threw her to the side. She remembers that what terrified her, more than the heavy weight of another body on her own, more than the slick slip of blood she could feel on her skin, was that she couldn’t hear anything. She could see people running around, see the flash of blades and the movement of limbs, but she couldn’t hear anything. The world was muted, and when she tried to speak, all she heard was a ringing in place of her voice. 

 

It is the same thing, now, but this time she knows what has happened. 

 

She feels weighed down, when she opens her eyes to darkness and chaos and blurred shapes. She can feel the vibrations of panicked feet beneath her, but she can’t hear any more than a high pitched ring in her ears. She is lying flat on her back, staring at the heavens, and the stars are obscured by thick, dark smoke. She can smell fire and burning flesh and she understands what has happened, in that moment of physical helplessness, she understands that their warning came too late. 

 

She understands that they failed, and that every representative of the twelve clans are most likely dead. 

 

That Clarke is dead. 

 

That Lexa is  _gone_. 

 

Her grief is sudden and blinding, and she feels just as helpless as she did that day when her reality became a nightmare. Her eyes burn, like the fire is curling over her irises, and a suffocating weight presses down on her chest, cracking her ribs and tearing her lungs until she feels like she’s going to bleed out right there in the dirt, until everything that she is and everything that made her vanishes in the curling smoke of the fire that marks her peoples’ graves. 

 

She feels worse than she did when a bullet ripped through her torso and pulled her apart as it went. She feels broken and cracked and hollow. She wonders if this, this sudden, silent ruin, is what it is really like to die. 

 

And then she takes a deep breath, and locks the grief away. She takes a deep breath, and pieces herself together by sheer force of will. There is no time to grieve for the girl she loved and would have died for. There is no time for weakness. 

 

If she is dead inside, if part of her perished in that explosion with Lexa, then her body can still serve. 

 

Lexa would want her to get up. 

 

She rolls onto her stomach, staying low, because she remembers that the Mountain Men have someone watching the camp. She slides her hands beneath her shoulders, and pushes up into a crouch, blinking rapidly to get her bearings. Everything that was once familiar about TonDC has been torn up and changed, and without her hearing, with that high pitched, infuriating ringing in her ears, she can’t orientate herself very well. There are shapes, her people moving about in the smoke, and she starts to move, crawling forwards towards a group of people. 

 

She doesn’t think she’s actually been injured. Nothing hurts (nothing beyond the ache in her side, the bullet wound that has marked her and has weakened her, and she’s so tired of it), at least, nothing knew. She moves forward slowly, testing her arms, her legs, and finds that she can move relatively well. She presses up against a slab and raises a hand, clicking her fingers next to her ear. She hears it, the  _click click_ , but it is still muted. 

 

She is regaining her hearing well enough. There is no permanent damage (nothing physical, but she feels broken somewhere deep inside, because Lexa is gone,  _she’s gone she’s gone she’s dead she’s dead_ , and Anya has never know failure as acutely as she knows it now). 

 

Lexa (her Commander, her second, her friend) is dead. She’s dead because their warning came too late. Somewhere along the line, between hearing the Sky Boy’s warning and arriving here, they delayed. She doesn’t remember how. She doesn’t remember when. She doesn’t know if they could have done anything differently, but it is too late, now. 

 

Lexa is dead, Clarke is dead, and this alliance they’ve worked so hard for is going to crumble around them. 

 

Her hearing comes back suddenly, all at once, and she becomes aware of screams and shouts and cries, of pain and fear and despair, and she shakes herself. She cannot be weak now. Her people need her. 

 

There is a loud  _crack_ and one of her people drops to their knees, still and unmoving.  _Sniper_ , she thinks, and she ducks lower, searching. 

 

She catches sight of Lincoln’s familiar figure through the smoke, and moves, keeping low, reaching out to steady herself on any piece of rubble she passes. 

 

The chaos seems amplified in this small circle, with Indra snarling and spitting at Lincoln from her position on the ground, with Lincoln attempting to help her with the wound that looks terrible, even in this light, and she pushes past two seconds, moves to Octavia’s side, and grabs Indra’s arm. ‘Indra’, she snaps, her voice rising over Indra’s protests, ‘do not be a fool’. 

 

‘Anya’, Lincoln breathes, openly relieved to see her alive, and she’s reminded with an acute pang of remorse that she went to get Lincoln and Nyko, encase they needed healers, and she could have used that time to evacuate as many people as possible. But she had trusted that Clarke would get to Lexa on time, that they’d  _have_  more time, and she doesn’t understand what happened, only that she’d been wrong. 

 

Anya leans forward, trying to look at Indra’s wound, and she knows that its not good. She can see the pain in her former mentor’s face, the harsh breathing, the sheer force of will she is exerting to stay conscious. ‘ _Hold on, Indra_ ’, she says, harsh and uncompromising, as if Indra has no choice in the matter. 

 

Octavia moves to shift closer, rising up off her knees as she does, and Anya grabs her by the shoulder and jerks her backwards, hard enough that she loses her balance and falls partly on top of her, and the next bullet cracks against the concrete, breaking off a chunk of rubble, whistling over their heads to vanish in the dark.  _‘Stay down_ ’, she hisses. 

 

‘We need to take out that sniper’, Octavia says, staring down at Indra with clear concern. ‘There are people still trapped down there’. 

 

Anya nods, her hand still tight on the girl’s shoulder. She looks at Lincoln, and then at Nyko, and jerks her head at Indra. ‘Tend to Indra’, she says, ignoring the way Indra is glaring at her. ‘And you’, she turns to Octavia, ‘don’t let her stop them’. 

 

She releases Octavia’s shoulder, and shuffles through the group, moving towards a vantage point that she can probably use to get to the trees. Lincoln grabs her shoulder to stop her, and she almost snarls. ‘I should go, Anya. You should lead’. 

 

Anya almost scoffs. There is anger rising within her, bubbling to the surface and washing away her grief and despair and regret, and she holds onto it, fuels it, pours the energy she has into spurring that anger to new heights so that she doesn’t have to think about the emotions that would weaken her. She wants the sniper dead. She wants vengeance. She wants blood. 

 

‘You must stay, Lincoln. Help the injured’. She glances at him, and sees the same anger in his face, the same desire for blood, and remembers that he has escaped the Mountain, too. That they turned Lincoln into the monster he’s always feared becoming, and that he is living with the memory of what he was forced to do in that time. They saw very different parts of the Mountain, and their experiences were different, but the Mountain Men have violated a part of both of them, and she wonders why this is the first time she is remembering that. 

 

They tried to take Lincoln’s freedom, and they tried to take her life, and somehow, in some small way, they succeeded in both. They are still living with that, and until they’re not, until the exhaustion in her bones has lifted, and the haunted guilt in his eyes is gone, the Mountain Men will still be winning. 

 

‘Our priority is that sniper’, he says, hard and determined and righteous. ‘I can’t even get to the injured right now. Let Nyko tend to Indra’. He stares into her eyes, and though nothing softens, some of his anger seems to dampen, to become restrained. ‘I was your best scout, Anya. Let me go’. 

 

Anya grits her teeth, biting back a retort. She is not angry at Lincoln. None of this is his fault. The guilt swirling up inside her is her own, and she has no right to take it out on him. ‘Then we both go’, she says, and something like surprise flitters over his expression, ‘together’.

 

He nods, and she gives him a moment to relay the plan to Nyko, and pretends not to notice how he presses his forehead to Octavia’s, a determined not-goodbye. They do not have time for such a thing, so if she doesn’t see it, there is no reason to get aggravated at him. 

 

Pretending that she doesn’t see it doesn’t mean that she doesn’t, but she understands. She understands, because Lexa is dead, Lexa is gone, and Anya can’t even remember the last words she said to her. 

 

When Lincoln joins her, his hard expression is tempered with anger and that cool practicality that he’s always possessed. He holds out his hand, and she takes it briefly, and it is a wordless promise, a vow, to avenge what happened here, to avenge Clarke and Lexa and the countless people who have died in the flames. 

 

It is a vow to avenge themselves. 

 

~~~~~~

 

By the time they have reached the high ground, it is light, and Anya feels like they are running out of time. 

 

They move quickly, keeping low to the ground, using the vegetation as cover now that they’ve left the trees behind them. Lincoln grabs her arm suddenly, and they duck down behind a log. Lincoln’s hand is on her back, keeping her flat against the ground. ‘What?’ she whispers. 

 

‘Listen’, he says. She grits her teeth, and tilts her head. 

 

It takes her a second. ‘He’s stopped shooting’. 

 

Lincoln nods, lifting his fingers from her back. ‘There must be someone else out here’. 

 

Anya nods, pressing her knees against the ground to push up, just slightly. They have to stay low. ‘Good. We could use the distraction’. She jerks her head. ‘Lets move’. 

 

They start moving again, keeping low, practically crawling across the dirt. Anya is reminded of their younger days, when they hunted together, before their responsibilities changed things. 

 

The sound of gunfire breaks the silence, Anya sees a flash, movement in front of her. She narrows her eyes, focusing harder, and she sees the distinctive, dark shape of a gun barrel. The sniper appears to be hiding behind a dead tree, and his gun is trained to their right. Anya follows the line of his barrel, but all she sees is a boulder. Whoever is there, they are pinned down, and for now, out of sight. 

 

‘You see him?’ Lincoln’s voice is a whisper in her ear, and she nods imperceptibly in response. ‘How do we do this?’

 

She lifts her hand slightly in front of her, twists her fingers to the right in a circle, and jerks her thumb at him. He nods, and she says very softly, ‘I’ll come up behind him. If you have the opportunity first, take him out’. 

 

She taps him on the shoulder, and they split up. She circles around, keeping an eye on the sniper, but focusing on moving quietly. 

 

She hears gunshots again, but she keeps moving. Breaking her cover to check whether Lincoln is still alive will help none of them. 

 

It is the high pitched sound, a sound she remembers from Raven’s tent, from the beacon that she was trying to repair, that tells her that Lincoln has been caught. It also tells her that in that moment, the sniper is distracted. His focus is entirely elsewhere. She inches to the edge of the vegetation, eyes fixed on the sniper, and she sees that his back is to her, Lincoln caught in his grasp, a knife held to his neck, and that he appears to be speaking to someone. 

 

‘Come out’, she hears, and the sniper’s voice is like a grate, like gears grinding together, like the sound the container beneath the mountain made as the Reaper pushed it through the tunnels, ‘or he dies’. 

 

She pauses. She pauses, because she’s not sure if he’s talking to her. But his back is still to her, and she sees two figures moving out from behind the boulder. She ignores them, because in that moment, they are not important. 

 

She moves. She breaks cover, pushing up off her knees with all the anger rolling through her body fuelling her, moving her, she lets it take over her so that there is no room for doubt or hesitation, no room to wonder whether she’ll be seen, circling slightly so that she comes at him from the side. 

 

She moves, drawing the knife in her hand, sprinting across the short distance, and she ducks her head and rams into the sniper’s body, jabbing her knife up between his ribs as she goes, with all the strength of her anger and grief and regret gathered behind her, with enough force to rip him away from Lincoln, to throw him to the ground, and she scrambles up on top of him, ignoring the screech of panic that tears from his lips, the way he flails at her with his knife (she feels it slice into her skin, a dull sting, her arm aches), and she punches him as hard as she can in the face, once, twice, three times (her knuckles are bruised, her knuckles are bloody), and then she slams her dagger into his eye, and  _twists_. 

 

He twitches. Her hand is fastened around his neck, and there is a ringing in her ears. She can hear the grate of rusty wheels in the distance. She can feel pressure on her head, like the sensation of blood rushing to her skull. The sting where his knife sliced her arm feels like the prick of needles. 

 

She watches his jaw slacken, his one eye turn lifeless, the pulse in his neck halt abruptly. She feels a flash of exhilaration and triumph, and she thinks,  _one down._  


 

Lincoln’s hand is on her shoulder. ‘ _Onya?’_ he says, and there is clear concern in his voice. 

 

She pulls her dagger from the man’s eye with a noticeable squelch, and cleans it on his arm. She turns her head to look at Lincoln, and his hand is still there, held out for her to take. She grasps his arm, and lets her pull him up. She glances at his neck, inspecting for injury, and raises an eyebrow.  _‘You good?’_  


He nods, but she never hears what he plans to say. Instead, a voice cuts across him, and it is a voice she never thought she would hear again. 

 

‘Anya?’

 

She turns quickly, too quickly, her feet slipping in the uneven ground, and her knees bend in a half crouch, as if her body is ready to spring, ready to flee, to attack an enemy, to run from a ghost. 

 

It is Lexa. Lexa, with a hood pulled over her head, her face clear of war paint, the Commander’s gear missing from her forehead, the red sash absent, dressed down like a regular soldier. Her expression is carefully blank, but her eyes reveal something else. They reveal surprise, surprise and relief and concern, like the time Anya stumbled into the firelight after her encounter with the  _pauna_ , and Anya takes one look at those eyes, and knows that this is not a ghost. This is not a hallucination. 

 

Lexa is alive. 

 

And Clarke is standing beside her, her eyes glistening with tears, a gun held tightly in her hand. She looks immensely relieved to see her, but Anya sees the guilt in her eyes, and understands what must have happened. 

 

She doesn’t know why she didn’t think of it before. But of course, that would’ve been a false hope, to wonder if they’d left, if they’d done the smart thing and got out, and Anya does not deal in false hope. She’d believed that they’d died, but of course there was enough time. There was enough time for her to get Lincoln and Nyko, so of course there was enough time for Lexa to make the smart decision, and get Clarke out with her. 

 

Anya feels her lips pull in a smile that doesn’t really seem to register, because the relief cascading over her in waves is overwhelming. She tears her eyes away from Lexa, because she knows that she is revealing weakness here, in that pause, that lengthy pause where she just  _stared_ , and she has to deflect that weakness, so she looks at Clarke, Clarke, who looks desperately guilty and regretful. 

 

The smile pulling at her lips widens, and she hears herself chuckle. It sounds breathless and surprised, but when she speaks, her voice is perfectly steady. ‘Well, Clarke’, she says, straightening up, and sliding her dagger back into its sheath, ‘remember this moment. I am not often wrong’. 

 

Beside her, Lincoln lets out a startled chuckle. Clarke blinks, the humour clearly passing right over her head. Anya looks back at Lexa, confident that she has regained her composure, and bows her head. ‘Heda’, she says, ‘it is good to see that you live’. 

 

Lexa inclines her head in response, staring at her face. She is silent for a moment, perhaps choosing her words carefully.  _‘We should return’,_ she says finally, but Clarke stops her. 

 

Clarke steps forward, tucking her gun away, and reaches for Anya’s arm. ‘Let me look first’, she says, a snap, and Anya becomes aware of the tension between the two women. 

 

Lexa blinks, and then nods. She glances at Lincoln, and says,  _‘come, tell me of the village_ ’. 

 

Lincoln blows his horn, and then moves to join her. Clarke looks at Anya, her jaw set and her eyes gleaming, and gestures. ‘Sit’.  

 

Anya raises an eyebrow. But she shrugs off her coat, pulls up her sleeve, and sits. 

 

Clarke kneels beside her, inspecting the wound as best she can in their current circumstances. Anya watches her face, taking in the bright film of tears in her eyes, the down turn to her mouth, the hard set to her jaw, as if she’s gritting her teeth tightly. She frowns slightly. The woman’s regret is clear, the guilt hanging from her shoulders like a physical weight, and she says, ‘Clarke -’ 

 

‘I didn’t want to leave you behind, Anya’. 

 

Anya blinks. She did not expect that. Her frown deepens, and it nothing to do with the dull ache in her arm. She is not exactly clear on what happened between Clarke dismounting the horse, and the moment the missile hit, but she can guess. She can guess that Lexa realised that there would be no time to evacuate, and that warning people would only inform the Mountain Men that they’d known, that there was a spy in their midst, and that they would’ve kept sending them. She says slowly, ‘when you make a sacrifice for your people, there can be no exceptions’.

 

Clarke’s hand tightens on her arm, and Anya hisses softly. The young woman swallows, letting her go, reaching down to tear a strip of fabric from her hood. Her eyes are averted when she says, ‘I’m not in the mood for any of your lessons, Anya’. She sighs heavily. ‘We could have warned people. We could have saved lives, and instead we just… we ran’. 

 

‘You ran because it was the smart move, Clarke’. She tilts her head slightly. ‘I doubt you would have run if you did not believe that’. 

 

Clarke clears her throat, and says, ‘this is shallow. I don’t think you’ll need stitches, but you’ll need to keep it clean’. She wraps the strip of fabric around her arm, tying it off carefully. Her hand stays there, her thumb pressed against the crease of her elbow. She looks up again, and stares at her with something like disbelief, but perhaps there is also relief curling in her eyes. Anya wonders if Clarke expected her to hate her for the decision. ‘How can you be okay with the fact that we let it happen? You told me that we had to warn everyone, and instead, I let it happen’. 

 

Anya raises an eyebrow. ‘You speak as if you’re the one who launched that missile, Clarke. The Mountain Men forced your hand. Do you honestly think that Lexa made that decision lightly? You both made a decision to save this alliance. To lose a battle in order to win a war’. 

 

Clarke swallows. ‘And all those people who died?’

 

Anya wonders if the woman realises that it was her people who died in that explosion, not Clarke’s. Whether she realises that she’s doing what she said she would do. That she’s stopped thinking of their people as separate. ‘When this is over, Clarke, we will mourn their loss. We shall honour them’. She leans forward slightly, to catch Clarke’s eye. ‘When we take the Mountain, their deaths will not have been in vain’.

 

Clarke lets go of her arm, and tears off another strip of fabric. She wraps it around the first, tying it off tightly. She looks up at her, and stares at her for a moment. She says quietly, ‘I left you to die, Anya. That doesn’t bother you?’ 

 

Anya chuckles. ‘I am expendable, Clarke. I am a soldier. I will fight and die if need be in order to destroy that Mountain. You and Lexa are crucial to this war. To this alliance. Whatever happens, you cannot die’. She frowns again, recognising a faint flicker of horror in Clarke’s eyes, and wonders why the woman seems so startled by her words. ‘I can’. 

 

Clarke stares at her, a fierce frown furrowing her brow, her eyes glittering, that determined set to her jaw, and starts to say, ‘you’re not -’ 

 

‘Are you ready?’ Lexa has appeared suddenly by their sides, her fingers tapping repeatedly on the pommel of her sword. She looks on edge, a little anxious, but also restless, like she can’t wait to return, like she can’t wait for this march on the Mountain, a march that they still have to delay. 

 

The decision to leave without warning everyone was clearly Lexa’s, Anya knew that the moment she realised what must have happened. Lexa could not have been convinced to leave her people behind. 

 

It might have been a ruthless decision, but that is what makes Lexa the great Commander she is. If Anya had been in her position, she would have warned people, and their insider in the Mountain would’ve been caught, and more missiles would’ve been sent, and they would have lost this war. 

 

Lexa understands the meaning of sacrifice to her very core. She will return to TonDC, and rally her warriors for retribution and war, she will make sure that these deaths were not in vain, and she will not doubt her decision, and she will mourn every warrior who fell, privately. 

 

And looking at Lexa’s face, at the fire in her eyes that mirrors the rage that curled within her own heart when she woke up in the ruins of TonDC, there is one thing that Anya knows, without a doubt. 

 

For forcing Lexa to make this decision, to sacrifice her people for the sake of victory, to force her to walk away from the people she has protected and fought for with every fibre of who she is, the Mountain Men will pay. 

 

They will burn for this. Every last one of them. 

 

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

 

Lexa doesn’t get the opportunity to speak to Anya until after Clarke is satisfied that they have gone over the plan enough times. By that point, Lexa is sure that Clarke could recite it in her sleep. 

 

She understands how Clarke feels, of course she does, she is sympathetic to the agony of waiting, of leaving a critical aspect of their plan in another’s hands, of being unable to do nothing, but patience is a long, necessary game. 

 

They have no choice but to wait. Lexa sits in her chair, and while she waits for Anya to arrive, tries not to think about how Clarke will react once she learns about her order to silence Octavia. 

 

She knows that Clarke won’t forgive her for that, she does, but she hopes that she’ll at least understand why she made the decision. She understood why they had to run, even if she protested later, so maybe even if she can’t forgive, she’ll understand. 

 

It hurts, the thought that she won’t, but Lexa will find a way to live with Clarke’s hatred, if she must. 

 

Anya steps into the tent, and Lexa rises from her seat. Her former mentor looks tense, her shoulders tight, and as she enters, her long coat swirls around her feet, revealing that her hand is curled tightly around the hilt of her sword, her knuckles white from the tension. Her expression is hard and unyielding, and she bows her head as she steps closer. ‘ _Heda_ ’, she says tightly, clearly distracted, ‘ _you asked for me?'_  


 

Lexa takes a deep breath and says quietly, almost softly,  _‘_ Anya _’._  


 

Anya’s blank mask falls at the sound. It is a signal, really, an unspoken understanding that developed between them when Lexa took up her duties as Commander, when she still had Costia and she hadn’t pushed Anya away, before she gave up fighting Titus’ attempts to convince her that love could only ever be weakness. 

 

The recognition in Anya’s eyes is unmistakable, and a very slight smile quirks her mouth. ‘Lexa’, she says, a greeting, the formality gone. The woman pauses, and the hard set to her shoulders drops a little. Lexa becomes aware that she looks exhausted, the shadows beneath her eyes more pronounced in the light. The corners of her mouth are turned down, and without her mask, Lexa can see that her face is tight, a lingering sign of a physical injury that is causing her pain. ‘I know I said it before’, Anya continues, pulling Lexa from her observations, ‘but it… I am glad that Clarke got to you in time’. 

 

Lexa swallows, and licks her lips. She knows she made the right decision, she does, but she also remembers that Clarke went back for her mother, and they are both alive. 'And I am glad that you lived'. 

 

Anya's eyes sparkle with amusement, and she says wryly, 'I am not easy to kill, Lexa'.

 

Lexa almost smiles. 'That is becoming very clear, Anya'.

 

A comfortable silence settles between them. Lexa is glad for it, for this moment of peace in the midst of war and anxiety and tension and endless, endless waiting.

 

Anya is the one to break it, her voice soft and curious, 'was there a reason you wanted to see me, Lexa?'

 

  
_Lexa_ , she says, not  _heda_ , a reminder that they don't have to be their responsibilities, not yet, even if Anya is being practical. Lexa takes a deep breath. ‘You are the first of our people to escape the Mountain, Anya. This victory is only possible because of that achievement. When we take it, you will fight by my side’.

 

Genuine surprise flitters over the woman’s expression, and Lexa wonders if the woman thought that she intended to leave her in the general ranks, because she no longer commands a unit, because her unit was slaughtered in fire, but not before Tristan took it from her, under Lexa’s orders. Maybe she thought that Lexa believed she was incapable of commanding any longer. But then it is replaced with something akin to joy, a fierce, wild look that pours from her eyes, and her smile is quick and blinding. Anya bows her head. ‘I am honoured, Lexa’. 

 

Lexa bites her bottom lip, because she called Anya here because she wanted to find a way to express how pleased she was that the woman had survived, but this, this doesn’t feel like enough. She remembers how last time Anya had returned from the dead, there had been a thousand things she'd wanted to say, but hadn't, because she'd been afraid of admitting those weaknesses out loud. 

 

But she looks at Anya's face, and she thinks about how willing the woman is to die for this cause, how she could go into battle and this time, she might not return. She might not return because she is still suffering the consequences of her last two near death experiences. Anya is strong, one of the strongest people she has ever known (it is a different strength to Clarke's, she thinks, but she can't really explain how), but even she cannot wipe away physical weaknesses, not in battle. 

 

She thinks about the fact that they could take the Mountain, and she could lose this woman who is the last person she might dare to call family, in the dark of night when no one can see her weaknesses, and suddenly the fear of admitting those things out loud seems very, very far away. 

 

The last time they were this close, Anya had stumbled out of the trees after sacrificing herself so that she and Clarke could get away. Lexa remembers how shocked she’d been then, how she’d stepped forward and clasped the woman in a half embrace, because they’d been alone and far from her responsibilities and she’d just wanted to express how relieved she was. 

 

The same emotion had flooded her when she saw Anya kneeling over the snipper, when she saw her burst from the trees to rip the man away from Lincoln, and recognised the fierce snarl twisting her lips. But she’d had to hide her surprise, her relief, the sudden flash of joy she’d experienced upon seeing the woman, because they weren’t alone. 

 

And oh, it is a risk, this urge to give into weakness, this desire to forget about her responsibilities, just for a moment, it is a kind of risk that she has not taken in so long, and they are not alone, outside this tent there are hundreds of her warriors gathered for war. She should not let herself be Lexa here, but the urge, the need, is there, bubbling under the surface. 

 

Because this is the third time in the space of a few weeks that she believed that Anya was dead. That she’d believed she’d lost her, this last link to happier days, the last person who perhaps really, truly knew her, her former mentor, her friend, and she’d been proven wrong, again. 

 

And she heard what Anya said to Clarke.  _I am expendable._ She heard the woman’s belief that she could die, and it would not matter. And the Commander in her, the person she always is, always has to be, understood exactly what she was saying. Anya is a soldier, a General, and she could die, and the world would keep on turning. Lexa knows that, because it already has. 

 

But Lexa thinks of losing this woman that she only recently admitted she cares for, aloud, letting the words fill the silence between them, and her heart aches. 

 

‘Anya…’ she stops, trying to gather herself, to find the right words, a balance between weakness and strength.  _Let it make you stronger_ , Anya had said to her, and Lexa wants that, she wants to try, she wants to take this feeling and use it to fortify herself, to become another layer of armour that she will wear when they take the Mountain, but it is a strange feeling, it is hard, and Anya regards her with a quizzical look, with unending patience, and Lexa takes a deep breath, and tries again. ‘I know that you will do whatever it takes to win this war’, she says slowly, watching the way Anya’s brow creases, as if she doesn’t understand where this is going, ‘I know that you would die for our people, if you thought it was necessary’. 

 

Anya’s frown deepens, and she nods. ‘I would’. 

 

‘I know. But I want…’  _I need_ , she wants to says, because Lexa hasn’t let herself want, or need, anything in a long time. She thinks of Clarke, and the strength of the young woman, the strength that she herself cannot see, this extraordinary woman who fell from the sky with eyes so blue they remind Lexa of the phosphorescent flowers, with sunlight caught in her hair, and she knows that she wants Clarke. She wants Clarke in a way she hasn’t wanted anyone in a long time, with a softness in her heart that has no right to be there, not after everything.  _Caring is inevitable_ , Anya had said, and Lexa thinks that maybe wanting Clarke, maybe caring for Clarke (loving her, a traitorous, dangerous thought), is inevitable too. 

 

Wanting Anya to stay alive is a different kind of need. 

 

She takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. ‘I… I need you to know, Anya, that… I have lost too many people. This is war. Sacrifices are necessary. But I need you to know that your death… would not be easy’. 

 

Anya’s eyes widen slightly, and it hurts, somehow, how taken aback she looks. Her expression softens considerably, and she says quietly, ‘death is never easy, Lexa’. 

 

‘And losing you would be far from that, Anya’. 

 

There is no mistaking the surprise in Anya’s expression. She just stares at her, her lips slightly parted, like she doesn’t know what to say, like she doesn’t know how to react, and it  _hurts_ , the knowledge that Anya is surprised that Lexa still cares for her, enough to give into this weakness. Her hands drop to her sides, and Lexa takes a step forwards.

 

Lexa holds out her hand, an echo of that night when Lexa let herself forget about her responsibilities, just for a second. It is different here, because she is acutely aware of them, and perhaps it means more, in the face of that knowledge. 

 

Anya steps forward immediately, and clasps her arm. And Lexa grips her forearm tightly, and feels that rush of relief and affection, and before she can think twice, before she can question the decision, with the weight of her responsibilities heavy at her back, and the glaring risk pounding in her skull, Lexa tightens her grip, and pulls Anya forward to clasp her in a half embrace, like that night with the  _pauna_ , and yet, so different. 

 

Anya makes a surprised sound, but her arm moves up under her other arm, wraps around Lexa’s back, her hand pressing against her shoulder blade, and Lexa lifts her other hand to rest on Anya’s upper arm. 

 

It is stiff and rigid, until it is not. 

 

Something softens, in Anya’s stance, and her arm shifts, her hand sliding up to clasp her shoulder, and the action pulls Lexa closer, presses her face against Anya’s shoulder, and Lexa blinks rapidly, fighting the sudden burn in her throat, because suddenly this is not a half embrace, a quick clasp of arms, a show of companionship. This is a hug, and oh, how long has it been since someone held her like this?

 

(She knows exactly how long). 

 

Lexa ignores the voice that tells her to pull away, that tells her that this is unwise and dangerous, that she is giving into weakness (it sounds like Titus’ voice, it always does), drops her hand from Anya’s arm, and wraps it around her waist. She presses her face against her former mentor’s shoulder, tightens her grip, and lets herself stay there. 

 

She feels raw and vulnerable, far too exposed for where they are, when anyone could walk in on them, and see a side of their Commander that Lexa should not let herself have. But she breathes in deeply, breathes in the smell of pine needles and damp earth, smells that she has known for more than half her life, and for a handful of precious seconds, she lets it happen. 

 

  
_Let it make you stronger_ , Anya had said. 

 

Maybe the first step to that, is to  _let_  herself care, without second guessing, without being afraid of the consequences. To let herself be weak with someone who would call it strength. 

 

Maybe the first step to that, is this. 

 

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

 

Clarke leaves Lexa’s tent searching for a moment of peace, for a moment of silence, for someway to vent the frustration and anger building insider her like a storm. 

 

She leaves the tents behind, walking through the trees until she finds a place where they are spaced more widely, a small clearing far enough from the camp that the noise has fallen to a general hum, but close enough that she can still see the tents, that she is not stupidly far away. She’s probably being watched by one of the lookouts, anyway. 

 

She leans her hand against the tree, and tilts her head up to the sky. She grits her teeth, and lets out a long hiss. She feels like screaming. 

 

‘What did she say to you?’

 

Clarke bites down on the inside of her cheek to hold back a startled sound. 

 

Anya is standing unnervingly close to her, leaning against the tree with her arms crossed. Clarke had almost forgotten how quietly the woman could move. She takes a steading breath, and tries not to snap at her. She is angry at Lexa’s stubbornness, at her refusal to trust her, and on top of that, on top of Lexa trying to convince her that the sacrifice was necessary, that she has what it takes to lead, she doesn’t need another of Anya’s lessons. 

 

‘Anya’, she grits out, ‘I am really not in the mood’. 

 

Anya tilts her head. Then she draws one of her swords, and hands it to her. ‘You’re angry, Clarke. Harness it’. 

 

Clarke stares at her. She’s tempted to resist, but there is also a part of her that wonders if this might be a good idea, if this is the distraction she’s looking for. She takes the sword, and Anya steps away from her, drawing her other one, and twirling it several times. 

 

‘So, what did Lexa say to you to upset you so much?'

  
Clarke ducks under Anya's arm, darting back, out of her reach, rather than attempting to land a hit on her. Anya twirls her sword, and arches an eyebrow expectantly. Clarke grits her teeth, shifting her stance. The blade feels heavy in her hand, like the weight of the lives she is responsible for that hangs from her shoulders. 'What makes you think that she said anything to upset me?'

Anya scoffs, darting forward quickly, and Clarke raises her sword to block Anya's. She feels like Anya is going easy on her, which she is sure is wrong, because Anya doesn't  _do_  easy, but the blows are easy to block. Perhaps the woman is trying to teach her certain moves. Anya steps back again, and points at her feet. 'Widen your stance. Distribute your weight more evenly'.

Clarke takes a deep breath to restrain her irritation, and shifts one foot forward, the other back, and drops her weight down. Anya tilts her head, eyeing her stance critically as she says, 'you went into her tent with a man at gunpoint and you came out looking like a thundercloud. A child could work it out'.

Clarke ducks under her sudden swing, and darts back again. She’s realised that this is  _not_  what she needs, and now she has no wish to engage in this lesson. 'Well then obviously your powers of observation aren't as spectacular as you think'.

She gets a slap on the thigh with the flat of Anya's blade for that. It stings, and she hisses, anger rolling through her. She darts forward, keeping low as Anya taught her, and swipes her blade towards the woman. Anya blocks every move deftly, an easy grace in her movements, and there is a very faint smirk curling her lips. However, her voice is deadly serious when she says, 'you are our leaders, Clarke. You cannot afford to argue among yourselves'.

 

‘I’m still not interested in your lessons right now, Anya’. 

 

‘Believe it or not, Clarke, I am not attempting to teach you anything’. 

 

Clarke leaps to the left, and lets her arm fall to her side. She drops the sword to the ground, and crosses her arms tightly. ‘Then just stop’. 

 

Anya twirls her sword once, her head slightly tilted, like she’s assessing how serious Clarke is. She straightens, and sheathes her sword. Her expression is smooth and calm, but the corners of her eyes are creased, perhaps in concern. Clarke doubts that the concern is for her. It is obvious to her now, it has been obvious to her since that day Anya nearly died so that Lexa could get away, how much the woman cares about her. 

 

When they fled the missile, Clarke realised that Lexa loved Anya. She’s known that Anya loves her former second for a long time, now. 

 

The concern in her eyes is for Lexa, but something about it, something about that fracture in her mask, calms Clarke. She takes a deep breath. ‘Octavia worked out that we knew about the missile. That we chose not to warn anyone’. 

 

Anya raises an eyebrow. ‘It appears Indra was right about that girl. I take it she did not approve’. 

 

‘Lexa wouldn’t believe me when I told her that Octavia wouldn’t talk. And I just… after all this, I thought that perhaps she would trust me to know my own people as well as she knows hers’. 

 

Anya’s smile is quick and wry. ‘Trust does not come easily to Lexa, Clarke’. She tilts her head again. ‘Why should you be an exception?’

 

Clarke knows, she does, how hard it is for Lexa to trust people. She’s known it for a while, perhaps began to understand it when the young woman first mentioned Costia. But after all she’s done to preserve this alliance, after all she’s sacrificed… she feels like maybe she deserves a little faith. ‘She keeps telling me that I was born to lead, Anya, and yet she can’t even trust me enough to know one person’. 

 

‘Perhaps she thinks that you are blinded by your personal ties, Clarke’.

 

‘Yeah, I know, Anya. Love is weakness. Victory stands on the back of sacrifice. Blood must have blood. I know all your lessons. I know those traditions. But that doesn’t make me wrong’. She reaches up, and presses a hand against her forehead. There is a headache brewing behind her eyes, and on top of everything else, its almost too much. ‘Don’t you think I know those lessons by now?’ 

 

There is silence for a moment, and Clarke lifts her eyes to stare at Anya. The woman is frowning slightly, regarding her critically, but she doesn’t look offended or angry. It looks more like she’s trying to find the right words. Clarke remembers that Lexa called Anya to her tent, before, and wonders what passed between them. She wonders whether Anya knows that Lexa loves her. “Love is weakness”, the woman quotes, and she sounds strangely bitter. ‘Not all of us are taught that, Clarke. Some of us come to believe that after we lose people. I was one of the latter’. Her frown deepens, and her eyes take on that hollow look that Clarke has seen from the woman only a few times before, and Clarke swallows tightly. Anya’s moments of vulnerability, her moments of truth, always seem to come at the most unexpected times. 

 

‘And Lexa learnt it when she lost Costia?'

 

Anya looks startled. She blinks, and her eyes widen slightly. ‘She told you about Costia?’ There is a hint of sorrow in her voice when she says the woman’s name, and Clarke realises that Anya, as Lexa’s mentor, probably knew the woman quite well. 

 

‘Yeah, she did. Not a lot, but enough’. Enough for Clarke to realise that there was far more to this hard Commander than she had originally realised. 

 

Anya frowns again, disbelief giving way to what looks like comprehension. She stares at Clarke with something like revelation, as if she is seeing her for the first time. She seems to be considering something. Then she says, ‘there are two types of people Clarke. But Lexa was both’. She sighs heavily, something like regret shinning in her eyes. ‘I don’t believe she truly trusts anyone anymore. You should not take it personally’. 

 

‘She trusts you’. 

 

Anya blinks again. Clarke watches her jaw tighten, and she swallows tightly. ‘I have known her for a long time, Clarke. Perhaps longer than anyone else still living’.

 

‘She cares a lot about you’. Clarke isn’t really sure why she needs to say that, but she remembers Anya’s words,  _I am expendable, Clarke_ , and she feels the need to find some way of telling the woman that she is not. 

 

Anya’s mask hardens, and by now, Clarke knows her well enough to recognise that as a defence mechanism. ‘And she was willing to let me die, Clarke. You must remember that. Remember that Lexa cares, perhaps more deeply than anyone. She cares about every life under her command, but she is the Commander, first. And we are at war. However she feels, however much she cares, she will always feel like she has to hide that. Any vulnerability she shows you will have come after great consideration, and at great risk to herself’. She sighs, and for a moment, she looks terribly sad. Then she blinks, and her expression hardens again. ‘It is what this world has taught her’.

 

Clarke swallows tightly. Despite her anger and her frustration, she cannot help but feel desperately sad at the woman’s words. Anya frowns slightly, regarding Clarke thoughtfully. ‘If Lexa told you about Costia, Clarke, then maybe she does trust you. But you cannot expect her to trust that herself. She’s trusted people before, Clarke, and it has not ended well’. 

 

Clarke sighs heavily, letting the last dregs of anger drain from her. She presses her hand against her face again, a gesture of exhaustion this time. She nods. ‘I should get back’. 

 

She turns to go, but Anya says quietly, ‘Clarke’. 

 

Clarke turns back slowly. Anya bends down, and picks up the sword she left in the dirt. She sheathes it, and then steps closer. She stares at Clarke for a long moment. Then she reaches down, and pushes her long coat aside. Clarke watches as she unbuckles the dagger strapped to her thigh, frowning. Anya turns the dagger over and over in her hands, and Clarke stares at it, almost mesmerised by the continuous motion. 

 

Anya steps forward again, and stretches out her arm, her fingers curled around the scabbard so that the hilt is extended to Clarke. ‘Take this’. 

  
Clarke blinks rapidly, unable to hide her surprise. ‘You’re… giving me your dagger?'

 

Anya’s mouth thins. She taps her thumb on the sheath impatiently. 'Your skill with a sword is not yet honed enough for it to be wise for you to take one into battle. But your bullets will run out. You will be protected, but you should have a way of defending yourself, should it be necessary’. 

 

Clarke feels a slow smile curve her lips, and the irritated look in Anya’s eyes only grows. ‘You do care about me’. 

 

Anya scoffs ‘This war is about to become very real, Clarke. I would simply rather not be solely responsible for your safety’. She sighs, and rolls her eyes. ‘Take it or leave it, Clarke’. 

 

Clarke steps forward, and takes the dagger from her. It is a comfortable weight in her hand, a familiar heaviness she associates with her gun. There are lines carved into the handle that she follows with her thumb, grooves that seem to be intricate patterns, as well as forming a better grip. There are patterns on the scabbard too, and Clarke runs her thumb over the grooves for a moment, before she looks up. Anya’s eye brow is arched, a faint smirk playing about her mouth. ‘Thank you’, she says, and she means it. 

 

Anya’s smile widens slightly, and she shakes her head. ‘Its not a gift, Clarke. When this is over, I want it back’. 

 

When this is over.It is an unspoken demand.  _Don’t die._  

 

Clarke curls her fingers tightly around the scabbard, and nods. She turns to go, but when she reaches the trees, she stops again. She comes to a decision. She doesn’t care if Anya sees it as weakness, not now, and maybe she won’t anyway, after all the things she has just said. ‘Anya, what you said? You’re not expendable’. 

 

A flicker of surprise passes over Anya’s expression, and she blinks several times. She frowns, searching Clarke’s face as if she’s looking for deceit, for an ulterior motive. The woman’s mouth quirks, amusement creasing the corners of her eyes. She inclines her head. 

 

Clarke walks away with the knife clutched in her hand, and she wonder if despite Anya’s protests, if despite the way all this started, this strange relationship between them can be classified as friendship. 

 

The fact that that Anya, who once wanted her dead like she had a personal vendetta against her, might be something like a friend, now, might be the strangest thing to have come out of this entire situation.

 

 

 

~~~~~~

 

 

 

Lexa kisses her, and the world tips on its axis. 

 

Lexa kisses her, and something deep inside her, something that had lain cold and dormant for a long time, sparks. She kisses Lexa back, and that warmth spreads through her like the roaring flames of a forest fire. 

 

She pulls away, because she has to, because there is a voice in her mind that is telling her that this is a bad idea, that she is not ready, and she knows that, she knows that she’s not ready, however much she wants to chase that warmth, to chase that sensation that made her feel  _alive_ , she can’t. 

 

It wouldn’t be fair on either of them. 

 

‘I’m sorry’, she says, and she sees the expression that passes over Lexa’s face, like she’s terrified she just made a huge mistake, and it is so, so different to the Commander she’s used to seeing (at yet she recognises this, this vulnerability, she knows it like a brand on her mind), ‘I’m not ready to be with anyone’. 

 

Lexa swallows tightly, and Clarke continues, ‘not yet’. 

 

Lexa’s nod is almost imperceptible, and Clarke remembers Anya’s words. About how Lexa cares, and yet she believes she can’t. About how she has to hide it. About any vulnerability being a huge risk. She stares at her, as that mask she’s familiar with slips down over her face, and thinks about what she said.  _Maybe life should be about more than surviving._ She thinks about the warmth still tingling in her finger tips, the ghost of Lexa’s lips as if they are still pressed against her own. 

 

Maybe when this is over, when the Mountain has fallen and they’ve mourned their dead, maybe then. Clarke wants to say that. She wants to tell Lexa, this young woman who looked frightened when she pulled away, like she feared a cruelly worded rejection, she wants to tell Lexa that  _not yet_ does not mean _never_. 

 

Because the thought of a time when she has moved on, when it might be safe to open up and have the warmth that flooded through her when Lexa kissed her, to have  _that_ , and to not be afraid to it, the thought of that kindles a kind of hope within her that she has not had in a long, long time. 

 

The thought of a time without war, with the emotion she caught a glimpse of in Lexa’s eyes, without heavy sacrifices for the greater cause, the thought of  _that_ , makes her smile. It is a slow curl of her lips that widens as something like understanding glimmers in Lexa’s eyes, as the set of her mouth softens, and Clarke realises that her hand is still resting on Lexa’s shoulder. 

 

She takes a deep breath, and drops her hand, lets her fingers brush against Lexa’s, and curls her thumb around, a half, hesitant hold. Her heart is beating very fast, and she thinks that maybe this is too much, maybe this is a contradiction to what she just said. 

 

But it is worth it, for the way Lexa’s eyes widen, for the way her mask seems to slip, for the way her entire expression softens. Her shoulders drop, and she curls her fingers up, exerting a soft pressure against Clarke’s thumb. A very small smile curls her lips, and Clarke thinks that there is nothing more beautiful than the small, bright flutter of hope in Lexa’s eyes. 

 

‘Not yet’, she repeats, but her voice is soft, and there is a lightness in her chest that shouldn’t be there, not now, when they’re still at war, but she feels almost like they’ve been removed from the world, that in this moment there is nothing but them and the half clasp of their hands, and the tentative promise of something  _more_  than survival hanging in the air between them.

 

There are cries, exuberant shouts that break the little circle of serenity between them, and when Clarke exits the tent and sees the flare arching up over the trees, the feeling that explodes through her is one of relief and something like triumph, and she thinks,  _finally_. 

 

Later, with the Grounders’ chant pounding in her ears, singing in her blood as if the words have always been contained in her heart, rolling from her tongue as if they are her own, and Anya’s fierce smile blinding her, Clarke will remember the promise they made together, the promise she made with Lexa, and she will realise that now, with the thirst for retaliation and justice shinning in all their eyes, they will finally be able to keep it. 

 

She will look at Lexa, as they march, as they stop at the base of the Mountain, and she will remember that soft, tentative clasp of hands.

Lexa will ask her to come to Polis, to the Grounders' capital, with something like reverence and hope in her eyes, and Clarke will tell her that Lexa has already changed her opinion of the Grounders, and it will feel like a kind of admittance that has never been more truthful.

She will look at Anya, standing tall and ready by Lexa's side, and the gleam in the woman's eyes will look like approval, like pride, the quick slant of her smile like a confirmation of what Clarke had dared to call friendship.

She will look at the slight curve to Lexa's mouth, and she will remember how warm she felt with those lips on her own, how alive.

And Clarke will remember how she said,  _not yet_ , and she will allow herself to think,  _one day._

_One day._  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was so hard to write wow. actually kinda nervous about posting this, because i know that this episode, and all the Clexa moments are really treasured by the fandom. I hope my slight alteration wasn't too much for anyone. 
> 
> to address a few things. The stuff that Anya says to Lexa, when she's had a very vulnerable moment with Lexa, isn't meant to be contradictory/hypocritical. Its more her recognising that Lexa truly seems to care for Clarke from Clarke's words, and attempting to warn Clarke that if she sees any of those moments, she should recognise how difficult they are for Lexa to risk. That is why Clarke gives Lexa the extra reassurance after the kiss. And to my mind, I think that if in the show, if they'd had a few extra seconds, there would have been another exchange between them. also, I loved the scene with the sniper in the show, and Clarke saying to Lincoln, 'you are my people', but in a scenario where they have more than a healer to go after the sniper, i think that would happen. Lastly, idk if you feel that the hug with Anya and Lexa was too much but I just had a lot of feelings about the fact that god, Lexa probably didn't get to hug anyone until that scene with Clarke in THAT episode. 
> 
> welp, we've reached the Mountain folks. not gonna be easy. as always, suggestions are welcome!
> 
> oh and, if you want to come say hi, i'm on tumblr @foxx-queen :)


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